Never Too Late
by Glimmer Conlon O'Leary
Summary: TITLE CHANGE from Uproot Every Lie  "I'm dead inside; bring me back to life. It's never too late to show you who I am. And I know you wanna love me. I know you understand that I could be your missing page." SEQUEL to "A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy."
1. Prologue

{Disclaimer: Newsies is owned by Disney. The title and summary are lyrics by Secondhand Serenade, and are thus copyrighted. Any original characters belong to me, and if you steal them without asking, I'll beat you.}

"**Never Too Late"**

"This is the way that I'll tell you that I'll leave you alone if you want me to, but I've had enough of this life alone—I'll give it up this time. I know I don't deserve to tell you that I love you. There's nothing in this world I'd take above you. I'm dead inside. Bring me back to life. It's never too late to show you who I am. And I know you wanna love me. I know you understand that I could be your missing page."

_Prologue_

When I fled Brooklyn, I headed north east, to that always talked about, never seen place they called Upstate New York. I found work on a farm-yes, me, a farm. I was trained for nothing, what else could I do but something that required very little training, merely an ability to follow orders?

You may hesitate there, thinking I'm the least likely person to follow orders. But you have to remember, I wasn't always the leader of Brooklyn. Once upon a time, I was just another newsy, following the orders of my leader, going along like everyone else.

But just like in Brooklyn, I set myself apart, and within two years, a few months shy of my twentieth year on earth, I'd been promoted to foreman, and was working for more hours, more money, and more responsibility.

It's strange, and nothing we realize in the moment, but our lives often carry a pattern. A person likely to lead as a child is likely to lead in adulthood. And just like in childhood, when what I led was a ragtag group of dirty-faced kids, what I led in adulthood was a ragtag group of dirty-faced men.

Men. Somehow, I held myself in a separate category: not quite child, not quite man. Years had passed, I was twenty-one, and I knew I had changed, hopefully had grown up, but I didn't feel like an adult. I wonder if anyone ever does. I doubt it.

I looked like a man now, I knew. Looking in the mirror was still a shock. I was always expecting the wiry, short, baby-faced boy of my youth. Instead, what I saw was lean, well-built man with tanned skin and rough hands. I've gained a few inches. Not many, to be sure, but any inches count when you were five feet, five inches tall as a seventeen year-old.

A lot had changed. I had a new life. But how different was I?

I saw them all in my dreams at night. Bourbon, Cowboy, Skittery, Water, Brandy, Zip, all the rest of them, too...but mostly, her.

I wish I had a name for her. I had names for the rest of them: Ben, Jack, John, Bobby, Paul, Charlie...on and on it went, and I knew them all. I even knew her friends' names: Kassidy, Mandy, Sophie, Ginny, Marie.

But not her. I'd asked, and she hadn't told me. She'd given too much of herself to me already; I understood that now. I'd taken it all, too.

And then I'd thrown it all back in her face and left. I avoided her for months, until my eighteenth birthday: November thirteenth, 1899, the day I appointed a new leader, then took off without so much as a goodbye.

I have dreams sometimes where I go to say goodbye to her, like I should have. In my dreams, she touches my face with her silky fingertips and presses her lips to mine one last time. She doesn't cry, and for that I'm grateful. "Remember me," she says.

I wish I didn't. I've tried to forget. It worked for a while, too. Eighteen, nineteen, it worked. I could bed a girl and not think of her once. I could keep her from my mind in my waking hours, only having to be tormented by her face in my sleep.

When I made foreman, though, there she was, all the time. There's that pattern theory again. She came to me for the first time when I became leader, and here she was again, dogging my every step, just as I became another kind of leader.

Now, I sleep with girls and can't see their faces. Just hers.

I expected her face to fade over the years, but it hasn't. It's there all the time. Everything conjures her. The shade of a horse's mane is the same color as her honey-colored locks. The owner's wife has her nose. A buddy's wife has her full, soft, pink lips. I look in the mirror at my own eyes and see hers.

Some days it's all I can do not to bolt down the drive and hitch a ride back to the City.

But I can't go back. I don't know where she is now. I don't know where any of them are. And what would it look like, me, Seth "Spot" Conlon, crawling back for a girl?


	2. Chapter 1

_December 15, 1902_

The alarm clock rang shrilly, jarring me from a very deep, warm sleep and plopping me into the cold, dark morning with a racing heart. I'd been using the damned things since I was eleven, and they still never failed to wake me up gasping.

I shot my arm out and slammed my hand onto the clock, succeeding in either turning it off or breaking it. I wasn't really bothered either way, to be honest.

Taking a deep, preparing breath, I flung the blankets off my body. Immediately, I felt my skin contract in the cold. I slipped out of bed, my long cream-colored nightgown swinging down to the floor. I padded to the fireplace and lit a match against the logs I'd arranged the night before. I allowed myself a small moment of warmth in the new flames, then turned to the door and flung it open.

In the hallway, I came to face to face with Panic, who flicked the switch and threw the hallway into light. We both blinked rapidly, grimacing, then headed up the stairs to wake the girls.

We were on time this morning, and so could go to them one by one and jostle them awake instead of the much less pleasant yelling of "Girls! Up!" that occurred on the mornings we both ignored our alarms.

Once everyone was at least stirring, if not out of bed, we headed back downstairs and threw on our clothes. We met back in the kitchen, where Sprint had already put out coffee for us and fruits and bread for the girls.

"Morning," she said brightly. Panic and I both grimaced in response. We were, and had never been, morning people.

Within minutes, the girls were bursting through the doorway, seizing food, and running back out. The front door opened and slammed countless times, the frigid air barely reaching into the kitchen.

Once all the girls were gone, Sprint collapsed into a chair and reached for an apple. We all sat in companionable silence, Sprint eating, Panic and I sipping our hot, strong coffee.

I found myself wondering at how our lives had developed since we'd turned eighteen. Once I had named Oklahoma as the next leader, the six of us, Panic, Mugger, Lady, Angel, Sprint, and I had all found jobs, saving up for a couple months before leaving, three weeks after my eighteenth birthday. I was the last to turn eighteen, and the others had waited for me before going off.

It was ironic, really. Our first jobs after leaving the newsies had been exactly what we had used in our lies to Manhattan and Brooklyn. Panic, now going by Kassidy, and I had snagged jobs as maids in the same rich house: a home with so many maids and such horrible employers someone was always quitting, so there was always an open spot.

Lady and Angel, now Mandy and Sophie, became governesses in different houses on the same street, each caring for children over five but under ten. Their experience with the youngest girls in the lodging house sailed them through their interviews.

Sprint, now Marie, and Mugger, now Ginny, became maids in separate houses a few blocks down, and we all lived far across town, in a shabby building, sharing two apartments.

This arrangement went on for a few happy months before Oklahoma tracked us down and pounded on the door of the apartment I shared with Panic and Sprint.

The City had finally figured out Missus Wells, and she'd been fired, effective immediately. They had also fired Stocking, the cook, for not reporting Missus Wells. They were threatening to shut down the building altogether unless a new super, housekeeper, and cook could be found within the day.

What could we do? The six of us sat down with Oklahoma and made our decision. Mugger, Angel, and Lady made more at their jobs than the rest of us, so it made more sense for me, Panic, and Sprint to return to the lodging house and take over the long-neglected jobs.

We moved into the rooms downstairs that, in our day, had been filled to bursting with all the old junk Missus Wells had cleaned out of her own home. We each had a bedroom, and shared a bathroom, which was a huge step-up from the one room apartment we'd been yanked from by the call of duty.

That had been nearly three years ago, and here we were, me twenty, Panic and Sprint already twenty-one last month, still living in the pseudo-home of our youth, only now, it really was our home. Now, we had jobs that not only paid the bills and gave us shelter, they also allowed us to build lives.

We all called each other by our Christian names, at least out loud, but in my head, I could only think of them as Panic and Sprint.

"What's on the schedule today?" Sprint asked, tossing her apple core into the trash can.

Panic ran a hand through her hair. "I've gotta clean the bunkroom and bathroom, plus do all the laundry. Anyone who wants t' help is welcome t' volunteer," she added, and Sprint and I chuckled. She rolled her eyes and went on, "Jake's coming over tonight for dinner, so if you two wanna ask Ben and David, we could make it a little party."

Jake Myers, Panic's Mush. They were still going strong. I didn't think anything was going to break those two up, mostly because Panic would never allow it. Mush worked in a factory during the day, and shared an apartment with Blink, now known (at least out loud) as Cole, who worked in the same factory and spent most of his evenings with Lady in the apartment she still shared with Angel and Mugger.

Angel and Skittery, or John, as he was called now, had kind of fizzled out a year after the strike. They still spent time together, mostly by rote, as Skittery still palled around with Blink and Mush.

And Mugger and Water...is was impossible to describe what they were, mostly because they didn't even know. They were very clearly infatuated with one another, but were both too wild and free to let themselves get tied down to each other. They both went out with other people, and then joked about it to each other before falling into bed together. It was unbelievably strange, but it seemed to work for them. Water had landed a lucrative job as a mail carrier, which I sort of thought as a grown-up version of being a newsy, though it sure as hell paid better.

Sprint and David had started officially seeing each other about six months before, after having a slow-burning friendship that intensified into something more. David was a junior reporter now, working for the Sun under Bryan Denton, the savior of our strike.

Sprint nodded enthusiastically in response to Panic's offer, and I followed suit after a barely noticeable hesitation. Ben. Bourbon.

We'd been friends since the strike, since we'd been forced to become a team. It had stayed that simple for years, and then, that past spring, he'd...

Beautiful, kind, sweet Bourbon. Bourbon, the man who wasn't afraid to tell me he loved me. Who made no secret of the fact that he wanted to marry me. I could never have guessed, back when the whole world called us Gleam and Bourbon, that it would be him I would be inviting to dinner in three years.

Bourbon...Ben. He was perfect in every way. So gorgeous it made your heart ache to look at him for too long, he was good and honest. Funny and interesting.

And I couldn't make myself love him. It hurt like a physical injury to have to admit that to myself. He was so good. He made it all so easy. It would be so easy to marry him. We would have beautiful, smart children.

And I would suffer through it all, because I was still so stupid as to love that abandoning asshole, Spot Conlon. Oh, I know his name is Seth. We called him Spot, still, even out loud, on the rare occasions someone brought him up. He hadn't grown into adulthood with us, had merely dropped off the face of the earth, and in all our minds, he was stuck as Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, never mind that Brooklyn's current leader, Shifty, was gearing up to turn eighteen and name a successor, as was our very own Oklahoma.

I went about my day, organizing the ledgers, counting the fees from the previous night, giving Sprint a count of how many of the girls she had to make supper for. The girls wandered in and out between the morning and evening editions, then most returned for supper at six-thirty. Night classes were from seven to eight-thirty Monday through Thursday, though the lessons varied wildly from reading to math to legitimate history to me, Sprint, and Panic reminiscing about the strike and passing it off as "history."

By the time the girls were all in for the night, at nine, the smells of our own dinner were wafting out from the kitchen. I wandered through the Atrium, picking up the detritus of the day and piling it on the stairs for the girls to collect the next morning. At nine, they all had to be in the bunkroom, although lights out was a rule we were lax on. Most nights, we could hear them giggling until eleven if not later.

That particular night was a Monday, but we also cut the girls who were sixteen and over slack on weekends, letting them sneak in the side door in the dead of night and pretending to hear nothing. We knew only too well what happened on weekend nights, and it would be a shame to deprive them of all that.

Lord knows that the middle of the night is the time you learn a lot of life's most important lessons.

Spot.

There it was. I missed him in a visceral way. It was primal and instinctive, nothing I ever planned for. I didn't have to be thinking of him to be missing him: I would sometimes suddenly find myself hunched over, with a tugging pressure behind my ribs, my breath stolen.

It was ridiculous. I hadn't seen him or heard a word from him in over three years, and here I was...pining for him. I had become more pathetic than I could have ever imagined.

I had a real live, wonderful man coming over tonight, one who wanted to be with me, who told me he loved me even though I refused to let him "court" me (he actually used that word. I know, I know, it sounds so corny, but, oh, if you could have heard the way it sounded in his deep, honeyed voice, or seen how open his eyes were as he stared at me, and felt the pressure of his hand...well, let's just say it was extremely difficult to say no), and I couldn't even see him.

I couldn't see past Spot Conlon. I needed something more than what he'd given me. He'd taken off and left me with no closure. I needed him to come back, if only so I could scream at him.

Oh, God, who am I kidding? If Spot walked in that door right now, looking for me, I would probably jump on him and consummate it right there in the entryway. It had been over three years since I'd...well, you know.

I just couldn't, not with Bourbon. I had kissed him a few times over the summer. They had been nice, pleasant kisses, but all they had done was make me feel guilty, because I longed for his lips to be someone else's. There hadn't been any more kisses in months, and I was beginning to sense that he knew something was up.

Anyway, I'd never slept with him, though he'd made it clear that the offer was on the table if I chose to take him up on it.

I know it sounds ridiculous for me to say I'd only have sex with someone I was in love with, considering how I got my sexual start, but...well, I don't really count my "breaking-in process," (Oh, how glad I am that I never had to put Oklahoma through that!) and, if I'm being honest with myself...the second Spot Conlon touched me, and kissed me with those lips, oh, God, those lips: full and soft and so, so beautiful...I loved him.

I knew I was acting crazy. It made no sense to wait for someone who may never come back, and ignore a man who adored me. But I...maybe I was crazy.

Spot had been frustrating. Infuriating, even. He had brought out the worst in me: I remembered screaming at him in his bedroom. But he had also brought out the best: he was the boy who got me to take off most of my clothes and jump into the East River. The one who gave me a voice.

He played such an important part in my story, and I couldn't let him go. So what was there to do but wait?

That night, the six of sat in the Atrium after dinner, talking and playing poker. "It's just like that party we all went to in Brooklyn, during the strike," Mush said, smiling that top-toothed grin that had inspired many a sigh and giggle when we were teenagers.

I froze. I felt my hands go cold. Panic elbowed Mush and murmured, "Jake!"

He looked up, confused. "What? That night was fun!" He caught sight of my face. "Lydia?"

I looked up and tried to smile. "Sorry," I said. "It was fun, with you all."

Panic eyed me knowingly. I shrugged. So what if all I could remember when I thought of that night was that it was the moment when Spot and I began to crumble? We could have gone on for months and months like we had been, if only I hadn't heard those boys talking. If only we hadn't gotten into that fight. That fight had been the beginning of the end. We revealed far too much of ourselves to one another, and he began to pull back.

Then, as soon as he could, he ran. He ran away the day he turned eighteen, November 13, 1899. Ran away without so much as a goodbye or a backward glance.

Bourbon reached over and squeezed my hand. His kindness made me feel even worse. He knew how I felt about Spot. He'd told me countless times that he'd wait for me to get over him.

But I knew, now: I wasn't going to get over him. And Bourbon couldn't compete with a ghost.

As the boys were leaving that night, Bourbon hesitated near the door, and I, on a whim, took his hand and led him into my bedroom.

He looked around, his tall, strong body taking up much more of the room than I could have imagined. He was so dear to me, I realized. I really did love him-just not in the way he wanted me to.

I sat on the bed, and patted the space beside me. He sat down, smiling sadly.

"This is it, right?" he said, more as a statement than a question.

I felt my eyes fill. Oh, God, I had really thought I was going to get through this without crying. "I'm so sorry, Ben," I whispered.

He nodded, and pursed his lips. I remembered the feeling of my heart breaking for Spot three and a half years ago, and knowing I was now passing that feeling on to Bourbon made the tears flow faster, and it was all I could do not to sob.

I took his hand, and to his credit, he didn't pull away. "I'm so, so sorry," I repeated. "I want you to know...If I could choose..." I studied his face: golden, dewy skin, a long, aristocratic nose under large, dark, almost black eyes. Long, curling lashes, thicker than even mine. Curved eyebrows under a smooth forehead covered with glossy black curls. "You would be the one I'd choose to love."

He nodded again, staying silent. I found myself wishing that he would yell at me. That he would fight. But that wasn't Bourbon. He was too good for that. If I had made a decision, finally, after nearly seven months of our relationship being more than just the close friends we had been since the strike, then that was that for him. He wouldn't try to change my mind.

I felt awful, bereft. I couldn't believe myself, hurting him. He didn't deserve this.

"He doesn' deserve you," Bourbon said, surprising me. "Spot, I mean."

It had been a long time since any of us had said his name out loud, and I had to stifle a gasp.

"Maybe not," I replied, giving a tremulous half-smile, "I may never even see him again. But that doesn't change anything. And I can't keep doing this to you."

He nodded again and stood, taking his hand from mine. His dark eyes were wet and glittering with unshed tears, and that sight sent me over the edge. "What if I want you to?" he asked

I stood and pulled him, this big bear of a man, into my arms. He wrapped his arms around me and held on for dear life, as though I were a lifeboat and he a drowning man.

I couldn't think of anything to do but whisper, over and over, "I'm so, so sorry."

After a few minutes, I felt him lift his chin from my shoulder, then press his face where it had been, effectively drying his eyes. He released me and stepped back. "I have to go," he said hoarsely, already moving away.

I nodded. What else was there to say? I had finally given up trying to forget about Spot, and now, finally, after pursuing me for so long, he was giving up, too.

He gave me a long look, turned, and walked out.

I fell back on the bed and cried.

What had I done? I'd let go of that amazing man in order to wait for someone who was most likely never coming back. What kind of imbecile was I? Did I not want to be happy?

I heard the front door slam, and I cringed. Seconds later, Panic and Sprint burst into my room. Panic looked prepared, as though she knew what to expect. Sprint was wild-eyed and fidgety. They were so beautifully, comfortingly themselves, and here I was, lying on my bed weeping with no idea who I even was anymore.

I turned my head to look at them, not moving from where I was sprawled, on top of my covers.

"Oh, honey, what did you do?" Panic asked softly, shaking her head.

I felt an ache in my chest, and a sob wrenched itself out of my mouth. I covered my face with my hands, wishing I could just disappear.

"You let him go, didn' you?" Panic said, sitting down on the bed. I nodded from behind my hands.

"Oh, Lydia, why?" Sprint cried, sounding anguished.

"She doesn't love him," Panic replied, reaching out a hand and placing it over mine. She drew my hands away from my face, and I opened my eyes to look at her.

"It'll be alright," she said firmly. "He had to've known there was a good chance this would happen. He'll come back around. You two are too close to let this ruin your friendship."

"He should hate me!" I exclaimed, slapping my hands back over my face.

Panic gently but firmly pulled them back down, then slid an arm under my shoulders to pull me into a sitting position. "He won't," she promised, her voice reminding me so much of my mother's that it was hard not to climb into her lap and cry. "He loves you. An'...he tried to make it all more than y' could handle, an' he's hurtin' right now, but...I think he'd rather be friends with y' than nothin' at all."

I shook my head sadly, and she pulled me close. Sprint sat on my left and leaned into my side.

"I'm a horrible person," I mumbled, wiping my eyes.

"No you're not!" Sprint said vehemently. "Not bein' able to stop lovin' someone else doesn' make y' a horrible person!"

Panic nodded. "And bein' honest with Ben and lettin' 'im go...you hurt him now t' avoid hurtin' 'im even worse later. If you'd kept up with this, you would've ended up breakin' 'im. Doin' it now...it hurt 'im, but he'll be okay."

I knew she was right. It was hard to believe it now, with that look on his face burned into my memory, but if I had given myself to him, or tried to, at least, I would have wound up hurting him in an irrevocable way, a way I couldn't have ever fixed.

"Lydia," Sprint said, her voice hesitant, "Do y' really think he'll come back?"

I didn't have to ask to know that she wasn't talking about Bourbon. "I don't know," I replied in a deadened voice, feeling all over again the hopelessness that was my current situation. "I really don't know...what if he never does, and I just wind up an old maid, alone forever?"

I felt them both stiffen on either side of me. I'd never shared this fear with them, with anyone. I hid it from even myself when I could manage it.

"Well," Panic replied after a long pause, brushing my hair back from my face with a cool hand, "If that happens, you'll still have us."

"Yeah," added Sprint, laughing a little, "We'll take turns ditchin' the boys to spend the night with you."

Panic laughed too, and after a moment, I joined in, and we all laughed together at the ridiculous picture that painted.

Sometimes, you can either cry, or you can laugh. It may be easier to cry, but it feels so much better to just laugh.

.

A/N: Woooo, okay. Definitely got a little choked up writing this, mostly because I've really done this to someone before, and it was completely horrendous. :/ No fun. Also, I love Bourbon so much...he's my all-time favorite OC...for more Bourbon, feel free to check out "Right Hand," also by me (Which is Spot/Bourbon SLASH, so be warned), and "Bloody Sunday" by Skimmers Conlon O'Leary Meyers, who is actually me and my cousin. Those are two nice Bourbon stories. Top, from the prologue of "A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy" makes an appearance in "Bloody Sunday" as Bourbon's older brother. :)

I'm hoping I can keep up this pace I've set by writing once Conlon and my husband go to bed for the night (Conlon heads to sleep at 7:30 and my husband doesn't usually last past 9:30 'cause he has to be up at 4 for work.) and when Conlon takes a nap (like right now), but we're both feeling much better, so I'm hoping we'll be a bit more active, weather-willing. German weather sucks, though, so...

Also, I was planning on calling everyone only by their real names, not their newsy names, but I was getting so confused just writing it and kept messing up everyone's names that I realized you all would never be able to keep it straight if I didn't at least call them by their newsy names in the narrative.

Review please!


	3. Chapter 2

Six days. That's how long it was until I finally saw Bourbon again. Six long, excruciating days where I tortured myself wondering whether or not I'd made the right choice. It was typical, really, of a woman: one second I was positive I'd done the right thing, the thing that was best for both myself and for Bourbon, and then next I was literally wringing my hands, agonizing over having surely made the wrong choice. He was so good, and so kind, and so, so, painfully beautiful.

When he came back, it wasn't at all what I expected.

We had a full house that Sunday night. Lady, Angel, and Mugger were there, along with their respective men: Blink, Skittery, and Water. Angel and Skittery were doing the weird dance they always performed around each other, the same dance I can only assume former couples everywhere do when in the same place: they laughed too hard at everyone else's jokes, and did a lot of exuberant gesturing as they talked. I imagine it's a plot to draw attention to yourself to make your former significant other kick themselves in the ass for ever letting you go—regardless of whether or not you wish you were still together.

Hell, who am I to judge? If Spot and I (there's that deep pang again) were ever in the same room again, I'd probably—no, scratch that, definitely—be doing the same thing. I might even hop my little butt onto a table and do the cha-cha if that's what it took to get his attention.

David was there with Sprint, of course, though he had run in late after "putting the paper to bed," as he always called it, which I couldn't seem to stop picturing as David lovingly tucking a newspaper into a crib. Mush and Panic were lounging on the love seat together, their legs intertwined probably more closely than strictly appropriate in a public setting. No one cared.

The girls were up in bed, and we were lounging around in the living room, all of us pretending the tension in the air wasn't thick enough to swim in. Bourbon couldn't even look at me, and I, of course, couldn't stop my eyes from straying to his face. I was desperate for some sign, some glance, that would tell me that eventually, things would be alright. I just wanted reassurance that I had not irrevocably damaged our relationship.

But nothing.

When the pounding on the door rang out through the house, we all exchanged curious, slightly alarmed glances. (Again, I didn't receive one from Bourbon.) Panic stood, and, smoothing her skirt, made her way over to the door. When she opened it, before I saw who stood in the threshold, I saw her stiffen with surprise.

"Jogger?" she asked, sounding instantly worried, "What's going on?" Jogger was Brooklyn's new runner, and as Panic swung the door open so we could all see, there he was, clutching a stitch in his side and panting heavily.

"Uh, uh..." He seemed either too winded to form real words, or too overwhelmed.

We had all vacated our respective chairs and couches as soon as Panic had opened the door, and now Bourbon sprung into action, sliding by me to approach Jogger, his chest brushing my shoulder. He seemed not to notice or care, though I'm positive my heartbeat ratcheted up by at least forty beats per minute.

"What's wrong, Jogger?" He demanded, laying a large, dark hand on the fifteen year-old's shoulder. By now, Jogger had regained his breath along with his composure, and for the first time, he spoke actual, dictionary-sanctioned words.

"Well," he began, glancing around at all of us, stress etched visibly on his thin, pale face. He cleared his throat and pushed a lock of his light red hair off his forehead. "There's kind of a...a situation. In Brooklyn."

"What is it?" I asked, stepping forward and taking my place next to Bourbon. I could feel the heat from his arm warming mine in the cool night air seeping in through the open door. "Who's hurt?" I asked.

"No one, no one," Jogger said quickly, not meeting my eyes. What was this? I wondered. Jogger was here at least once a week with some kind of message for Oklahoma, and he had never before had trouble chatting easily with me.

"Well then, what?" Water demanded, sliding in next to Bourbon. By now, we were all scrunched together, Panic practically on the doorstep, and Water, Bourbon, and I crammed into the wide doorway. I could feel everyone else's eyes on our backs as they watched carefully, ready to jump to whatever aid was needed.

Bourbon's arm pressed into my side as Water jostled for his position, and I felt it pull away slightly, if not completely, as he tucked it closer to his body in an attempt to move away.

"It's, well..." Jogger seemed to not know where to begin, or how to deliver the news he had clearly sprinted to tell us. "There's someone at the lodging house," he said finally, and I felt a tiny whoosh of disappointment. This was the big news? This was what Jogger had sprinted miles upon miles to tell us at—I checked the clock on the mantle—ten twenty-three at night?

But Bourbon seemed to take this news as more menacing than I did, for I felt his arm, still lightly in my side, tense as he leaned forward slightly on the balls of his feet. "Who? Who's there?" he asked, a hard edge in his voice.

Jogger licked his lips and drew in a deep breath, as though bracing himself. "Spot Conlon," he said finally, after a long pause.

Immediately, I felt my body flood with something akin to horror. It started in the middle of my back and raced up my spine to my neck, where it swirled across my shoulders and down into my chest before plummeting into my stomach. My breath rushed out of my body, and I couldn't seem to remember how to get more in. As I struggled to breathe, Panic whirled around to face me. She seemed as speechless as I felt.

I could feel the eyes on my back even more intensely now, and vaguely hear murmurs from the others. For the very first time in six days, Bourbon turned to look at me. His face was set and angry. "So. Your boyfriend's back," he spat. I tilted my head back to meet his eyes, and though he said nothing, his face softened in remorse and he slipped his right arm, the one that had been digging into my ribs, around my waist. His hand clutched my right side as he turned back to Jogger and asked, "Did he say what the hell he wants?"

Jogger looked flustered. He shook his head slowly, and, without looking at any of us, said, "He asked for you."

My heart leapt, and I straightened. What did this mean? What was he doing here? Why was he here? What did he want from me? Was this bad? Or was this about to be very, very good? My brain was swirling and I was just preparing to step forward when Jogger turned his eyes to Bourbon and continued, "He wants to talk to you, Bourbon."

I felt myself deflate. That bastard! He dragged his sorry ass all the way back to the City, went to the Brooklyn lodging house, and sent their poor runner all the way over here practically in the middle of the night to get _Bourbon_ over there? So many curse words ran through my head at once that I couldn't even think straight.

"Who the fuck does he think he is?" I spat, the words flying from my mouth. From behind me, I heard Angel gasp. Oh, Jesus. I love that girl to pieces, but does she really think she's the goddamned Virgin Mary?

"Lydia," Bourbon said, turning to face me and pulling me closer. I was acutely aware of the fact that my lady parts were pressed against his man bits, albeit through multiple layers of clothing. What the hell was wrong with me? Three years had clearly driven me a little loony. "I'll figure this out, okay?"

I looked up into his dear, sweet face, and in that moment, I knew we'd eventually be okay. He was my best friend, my ultimate protector, and my fiercest champion. He would take care of this. And maybe, just maybe, this would be the bump I needed to get the hell over Spot-fucking-Conlon.

I nodded, and he turned away, releasing me, and beckoned to Water. "Let's go," he said, "I want you to be there, too."

"Well, fuck it, then, I'm coming too," said Skittery, who, besides me, had the worst mouth of all of us.

"Same here," Blink declared, his voice carrying a steel-sharp edge.

Mush said nothing, merely nodded and strode forward. Panic and I both stepped back silently to clear the doorway. As Mush passed Panic, he gave her a swift kiss on the lips.

Passing by me, he squeezed my hand. As Blink and Skittery marched past, they each gave me a light kiss on the cheek.

Everyone turned to David, who was standing stock-still next to Sprint, his expression unreadable. After a few painfully long seconds of silence and staring, he sighed, threw up his hands, and said, "Oh, hell. I guess I'm coming, too."

He gave my arm a squeeze as he breezed by. Once all the men were down the stairs and on the sidewalk, Bourbon turned back to me. He looked into my face for a split second, then lifted his eyes to glance at the other girls, all of whom jumped as though scalded, murmured indecipherable farewells, and scuppered.

Bourbon turned to the men on the street, who waited with a practically dancing Jogger, who looked all-too eager to get back to Brooklyn to see the showdown, and called, "Gimme one minute," before closing the heavy door.

Once we were completely alone, he took my hands, which had someone grown ice cold even in the stiflingly hot, fire-heated room, pressed his forehead into mine and said, his voice slightly strangled, "I wanna fucking kill him for what he did to you."

A choked laugh escaped my mouth. "I know," I whispered, "But he was your best friend. That's kind of bad form."

Apparently, there was no cheering Bourbon up. He shook his head, effectively shaking mine as well, as our foreheads were still attached. "Part of me hates you right now, you know."

My heart felt like it was cracking. I really was a total shit. "I know," I repeated. "Part of you should."

He released my hands, straightened to his full height, and wrapped his arms around my body, pulling me to him so my face rested against his firm chest. "I'm gonna give him hell," he said softly, and laid his cheek on the top of my head.

"And then what?" I asked, returning the gesture and clasping my hands at the small of his back.

"And then I'm gonna bring his ass here so you can give him some, too."

.

Bam! Wow, it's been forever, and I feel like an asshole about it. BUT I have excuses. I moved back to MI from Germany and had to get myself and my son settled. I had to find a job and get registered for college, and of course, my husband is in KY right now, training to deploy to Iraq in January. So I guess you could say I've been busy!

Read, enjoy, and review, ladies!


	4. Chapter 3

Once the door had shut behind Bourbon, there was an immediate flurry of skirts and dresses as the girls swarmed back into the entry way, swooping down upon me and leading me silently back to the living room.

I sat down heavily on the faded red velvet couch, suddenly chilled despite the hot room.

Panic sat down slowly on my left, her gaze never wavering from my face, though I noticed, dimly, that the other girls were exchanging worried glances, clearly at a loss as to how to begin.

Panic had no such reservations. "Are you okay?" she asked, pivoting to face me, tucking her right knee up under her body.

"I don't…" I began, then stopped. Was I okay? I had no idea. I was feeling an intense surge of almost every emotion under the sun: dread, elation, anger, excitement, worry, anticipation.

Love.

Hatred.

I didn't know what to do or what to think. On the one hand, I was hoping to see Spot and feel nothing, to find that I was really and truly over him, and had been holding on to a memory that didn't matter anymore. On the other hand, I was terrified of that very thing. Did I want to discover that the love I'd held onto for three years didn't, in reality, exist?

"I don't know," I said finally, lamely.

"Totally understandable," said Sprint immediately, moving to sit on my right, seemingly reassured since I had now formed a coherent sentence.

I looked from Panic to Sprint, my two best girls, and felt, suddenly, that they really did understand, perhaps more than even I did.

I love Angel, Lady, and Mugger, and we spend a lot of time together. I know they care, and I know how much they love me. But, if truth be told, they knew only the condensed version of my thoughts and emotions of the last few years. These two women, Sprint and Panic, had been the ones I had lived with day in and day out, the ones I'd shared all my hopes and fears with.

What else was there to say, really, at this point? I knew I had no way of knowing, even after imagining this moment hundred of times in the last few years, how I would feel or react when the time to confront Spot actually arrived.

"I really thought he was never coming back," Lady murmured, her pale pink lips pursed in disapproval. "I guess it was just wishful thinking."

"Wishful thinking?" I repeated, arching an eyebrow.

Lady had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I'm sorry, Lydia ," she said crossing her arms defensively and tossing back her blonde hair, "But we all know how upset you were when he up and left. And I think we've all been hoping he would just stay away so you could move on."

Everyone else looked guilty, and it occurred to me that they had all discussed this very thing more than once. Instead of feeling indignant, however, I felt strangely touched, glad to have people in my life who cared enough about my well-being to talk behind my back about it.

"And by moving on, you mean Ben, right?" I concluded, knowing that they all hoped for Bourbon and I to live happily ever after like characters in a fairy tale. If only it were all so cut and dried.

"Of course we mean Ben," Mugger put in, emboldened by Lady's candor, her pale blue eyes gleaming earnestly, her vivid red curls standing out against her pale, animated face. "He's perfect for you, Lydia."

"He loves you so much," Angel said fervently, shaking her dark hair over her shoulder, speaking for the first time since Jogger had knocked on the door. "He loves you, and he's waited a long time, and I cannot believe you gave him up."

With that, my entire body stiffened. These were true friends, I suppose: people who adore you no matter what, but call you on your bullshit. Sometimes I think mere acquaintances would be better for my ego.

"I didn't give him up," I insisted, "I just couldn't keep doing this to him. He doesn't deserve this! All this drama, all this…this…" I fumbled. "He doesn't deserve to be dragged into my mess."

"Before tonight, the mess was all in your head!" Angel shot back, her face reddening in her frustration.

"So what?" I said shrilly. "So fucking what? Does that make it any less damaging?"

With that, Angel fell silent, but crossed her arms over her chest a second time and stared stonily toward the door.

I took a deep breath, knowing that Angel, Lady and Mugger had to leave to get back to Manhattan about ten minutes ago. The last thing I wanted was for them to leave in a huff, with Angel and me both fuming. "Look," I began, more gently this time. "I know you think I made the wrong choice with Ben. Maybe I did. But don't you understand that I can't be with him—or anyone—until this…this thing, whatever it is, with Spot is over?"

Angel turned her head to look at me, her deep, vivid blue eyes boring into mine. They were firm but kind. "Now's your chance, Lydia: either get Spot back and be done with it or get over him and fix this with Ben."

"I promise to try my absolute best to possibly do one of those things," I replied, with what I hoped was an endearing half-smile.

I was rewarded with a reluctant grin from Angel, and chuckles from the rest of the girls.

Two minutes later, after bracing hugs and promises to call with any news, Angel, Lady, and Mugger were out the door and into the night air, hurrying to catch the last trolley of the night back to Manhattan .

We shut the door on the girls and the night air and all turned around to lean back on the door, all exhaling deeply. Living together for as long as we had had made us prone to simultaneous movement.

"How long d'you think it'll be?" Sprint asked, twisting the wispy blonde ends of her hair with her fingers.

I combed my fingers through the tangle of my long, honey-colored hair, and when my fingertips caught on a snarl, I almost wished for scissors—or a knife—to chop it all off. I was feeling a little violent, to be totally honest. "I have no idea. I don't even know for sure that they'll bring him back here tonight. They all have to work tomorrow. They need to go home."

"It's 11:07," Panic murmured, glancing at the clock. "I doubt they'll bring him tonight, to be honest."

"We may as well just go to bed," I said, sighing. "If they come back, Jake has a key, right?" I nodded toward Panic, whom I was sure had slipped Mush a key without telling anyone. You can't exactly leave your doors unlocked all night long in Queens, and when else were they going to get frisky? Lunchtime?

She had the decency to blush, even as she twisted her straight, molasses-colored hair into a knot with a spare newspaper band. "Yeah, he has one," she admitted, and I, unbelievably, felt a laugh escape my mouth.

"Well, then. Bed, I guess," I said, with only small note of uncertainty. It wasn't as though going to bed would necessarily make me miss anything, and the last thing I needed was to sit up all night waiting for no one, but going to bed seemed like an impossible task. Sleep? Seriously?

I went into my room anyway, slipping out of my clothes with fumbling fingers and climbing into bed in a long cream nightgown that clung to my body from my shoulders to my hips before flowing gently to the floor. It was the kind of nightgown I had dreamed of being able to buy in my years as a newsy, and I never got tired of wearing it. It was, however, short-sleeved, and would need to be replaced soon by a heavier, long-sleeved model that I had yet to purchase. What is it about having spare money and a love of clothing that makes even nightgown shopping a thing to look forward to?

I laid back on my pillows (I slept with three, always: two for the top of the bed and one to pull vertical to snuggle. Don't even get me started on the possible implications of that habit. Loneliness is only the first item on the list.), and closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep.

After what felt like an eternity, I peeked one eye open to squint at the barely visible alarm clock on the bedside table. 11:23. I had been lying in bed for approximately nine minutes.

With a sigh, I covered my face with my hands. I started to rub my eyes with my fingers when I remembered I had yet to wash my face free of makeup. Cosmetics were another luxury I had been unable to afford in my previous life, and now, I didn't go out into the world without a thin, perfecting, dramatizing layer. It hadn't occurred to me that I had kept my mask on for a purpose, but I supposed I had. I didn't, after all, know whether or not the boys would bring Spot back tonight. If there was one thing I would not abide, it was looking less than stunning when he came through the door.

I struggled to find a comfortable position, turning on my side to hug my third pillow. Almost every night, the face I saw, the body I imagined when I clutched that pillow was Spot's, as he looked when I had known him.

I wondered what he would look like now, after these three years. My own face, I knew, had lost what little was left of its baby fat at seventeen, and had thinned into a long oval with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that cut a line against my long neck.

Would he be taller? I wondered. Thinner? Fatter? Stronger? Would his hair be dark and long, like a person stuck inside in a stifling job, or short and sun-bleached? Would his skin be pale and sickly, or golden and tanned? Would he still, at twenty-one, look like the boy I had known, or would time have morphed his features into those of a man?

Tonight, though, when I held that pillow, wishing for the comforting arms of a man, the face I saw was not Spot Conlon's, but Bourbon's. Ben's.

I imagined lying next to him, his dark hair curling onto my crisp white pillow, his eyes closed in sleep, his impossibly long, thick, smoky eyelashes resting gently on his dark cheek. I imagined my head on his hard, comforting chest, my hand resting gently on his rib cage. I imagined one arm under my body, propping up my shoulder, and the other mirroring mine, laid on my ribs.

Before I could decipher the meaning of that image, or even register any surprise or alarm, I was asleep.

The next morning I woke before the alarm for probably the first time in my adult life. I sat up immediately, wide awake, my body tensed, ears open for any sound. I heard nothing.

I briefly considered sinking back down into the pillows for a bit more sleep, but a glance at the clock notifying me that I had a mere fourteen minutes before my alarm sounded made up my mind. I swung my feet out of bed and headed to the bathroom, where I stared in dismay at the disarray of my hair and makeup. My cosmetics had smeared and rubbed half off, and my face looked patchy and oily, while my under eyes looked like I had been viciously beaten.

After washing my body, face, and hair, I carefully reapplied my cosmetics, then twisted my quickly drying hair with my fingers to encourage the weak curls.

I was just exiting my bedroom wearing a vividly purple blouse with three-quarter sleeves and large, ornately swirling metal buttons, and a deep rose skirt fastened with a thick tan belt, my matching tan heels in my hand, when Panic, still sleep-softened, emerged from her own room.

She wordlessly surveyed my outfit, and I felt my made-up cheeks flushing. The blouse, though high-necked, was so form fitting there would have been no way to make it fit without my trusty corset. The skirt rested at my waist, tight across my belly and slim in the hips before loosening at the knee and belling out in the trumpet style to the floor. Both garments were things I usually saved for a more special occasion than a day of work, and both were articles I almost never wore, a bit nervous about how tight they were.

"Don't say a word," I warned, pointing menacingly with my heeled shoes.

Panic gave me a sleepy half smile. "You look gorgeous," she said, and went to take her turn in the bathroom.

I roused the girls before joining Sprint in the kitchen, where she too gave an overlong look at my outfit, but said nothing.

The morning passed in a blur in which I never stopped moving, but never really accomplished anything. I stared unseeingly at ledgers, picked up clothes and various other items and set them down in a place no more neat or convenient than where I'd found them, and generally made a nuisance of myself.

I don't even really remember the afternoon or early evening. All I know is that suddenly, it was eight-thirty, the girls were upstairs laughing, screaming, and (supposedly) preparing for bed, and there was a series of hard, masculine knocks on the door.

My heart catapulted itself into my throat and lodged there, nearly choking me. Sprint, true to her name, fairly flew to the door and flung it open.

And there they were: our men-folk, Bourbon at the front, his face set. I could see stress etched into every plane of his face and body, and knew that whatever had transpired the previous night had not been pretty.

Mush stood next to Bourbon for a moment, then locked eyes with Panic and strode into the room. Bourbon took a deep breath and followed, revealing Skittery, Blink, and Dave behind him. They too entered the house, and as they parted, Water followed in their wake, leaving behind a lone figure, who hesitated in the doorway before straightening and stepping into the light of the entryway.

And there he was. And I felt…Nothing. Everything. I had a million words fighting for precedence in my head and no way to put voice to any of them.

He was beautiful. At least three inches taller, and about forty pounds heavier—all muscle, from what I could tell through his thin, mint colored long-sleeved undershirt and charcoal gray pants.

I flashed back to a day during the strike when I myself had, in a fit of defiance, worn an outfit almost identical to that one and gone frolicking in the spray from a fire hydrant. And who had shown up but the very man standing before me? This same man had let me, dripping wet, hug him in elation and lead him up those stairs, through that door, and into this very room, where we kissed hungrily before dashing up the stairs to my bedroom.

That very boy was standing before me now, his hair cropped short. And yes, I noted, it was sun-lightened, and his skin was a deep, dark tan. His face, too, had sharpened, his jaw squared and strong (and currently clenched tight), his cheekbones a hard angle underneath his temples. His arms were no longer the thin, sinewy muscle they had been, and were instead nearly as thick as Bourbon's. His shoulders were wide and strong, and tapered down to his trim waist. His entire body had thickened with hard-earned muscle, and I could barely recognize the boy I had shared my bed with.

But he was there in those full, dusty-pink lips, those sparkling blue-green eyes that I saw every morning in the mirror when I looked into my own.

He was still there. And now, he was here. And I had no idea what to do.

He was completely ignoring the accusing glares of all the others, his eyes focused completely on me. They flickered over my face, hair, and body, much like my own had been doing.

And then he did it. His lips quirked into that Conlon smirk, so familiar and so infuriating.

I tore my eyes away from him and turned to Bourbon, who was the only person in the room not staring daggers at Spot, instead looking at me, as though gauging my reaction.

"What did he want?" I asked snottily, as though Spot were not in the room.

Bourbon cleared his throat and glanced at Spot, who returned the look. I saw, incredulously, that it seemed as though some sort of grudging understanding had passed between them. I had no doubt, judging by the tension in Bourbon's neck and shoulders, that he still wasn't thrilled about any of this, but I could tell, by the look in his eyes, that he was ready to accept it, and allow it.

"You should let him tell you," he said finally, and I stared in disbelief. Was this the man who, the night before, had wanted to "fucking kill" Spot? I would have been less surprised had he ordered Spot not to speak to me, look at me, or acknowledge my existence.

"Oh, my God!" Sprint exclaimed, then clapped her hands to her mouth when everyone looked curiously in her direction. She lowered her hands slowly, her face flaming. She looked at me, and half-whispered, "We forgot to call the girls," she said, with the tone of someone sharing a secret. Very smooth.

"I can go call," Blink spoke up, half raising his hand.

I should have been glad at the mention of extra support, but suddenly, the only people I wanted around to witness this were Panic, Sprint, and Bourbon. I felt a twinge of annoyance at the fact that this thing, this intensely private moment, had turned into some sort of spectator sport.

I raised my eyes to Bourbon, and he studied my expression for the briefest of moments before nodding and turning to the peanut gallery. "Listen, everyone," he said, raising his voice authoritatively, and Blink halted mid-step. "Maybe a whole ton of people right now isn't the best idea. Maybe some of us should take off and come back tomorrow night."

His voice held no edge, but did not leave room for argument. Without a fuss, everyone except Panic, Sprint, and Bourbon himself gathered their things to leave. Spot stood silently off to one side, watching closely as Mush kissed Panic, Dave kissed Sprint, and all five boys stopped by where I stood on their way out to plant short, sweet kisses on my cheek.

When they were almost down the stairs, I hurried over the still open doorway and onto the steps. "Hey, guys?" I said softly.

They all turned, and I could see the dejection in their faces, and suddenly I felt terrible at turning them out. "I'm really sorry," I began, studying my hands, "It's just…I'm so grateful for what you did last night, it's just…"

All their faces lightened, and Skittery stepped forward, climbing the steps to wrap me in a hug. "We get it," he said into my hair. "We'll be here tomorrow, okay?"

I nodded gratefully into his neck. "Thank you," I said pulling away to rest my gaze on all of them in turn. "Seriously."

Blink, Dave, Water, and Mush all stepped forward to give me steadying, reassuring hugs, and then they were gone, strolling down the street to catch their respective trolleys.

I stood to watch them go, then turned back toward the lodging house. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and strode up the stairs, through the door, and into the entryway.

It was empty. I stood there, bemused and a little stunned, and then realized, belatedly, that the living room door was closed. I repeated my stair routine, marched to the door, and pulled it open.

I was not prepared for what I saw. Panic and Sprint were sitting on the couch, on either side of a hunched figure that could only be Spot, as Bourbon was standing awkwardly off to the side.

"What the fuck?" I exclaimed, my voice at least an octave higher than natural. Sprint and Panic straightened in surprise, then stood guiltily.

Spot, his elbows on his thighs, raised his head from where it rested in his hands, and what I saw in his face made me feel like I'd been kicked in the diaphragm. His eyes were glittering with unshed tears, and his face was scrunched, his mouth a thin, pursed line.

I felt a rush of protectiveness that caught me off guard. My body yearned to go to him and wrap him in my arms, to make whatever it was that was making his face look like that go away.

Instead, I crossed my arms over my chest, protecting my heart, and asked, lower and more softly than before, "What the hell is going on?"

Bourbon looked to Spot, who shook his head miserably and looked down at his legs. Bourbon swallowed, fidgeted a bit, and cleared his throat before saying, "He came back to find me, not you."

As my spine ratcheted itself to its full height in indignation, Bourbon quickly closed the gap between us, taking my elbow in his hand and leaning down to speak quietly to me. "I didn't mean it like that. He came back because of something else, something that didn't have to do with you, and he needed a place to stay. He figured the newsies in Brooklyn would probably know where I was."

"So he's staying with you now?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice from doing that irritating shrill thing it seemed so fond of lately.

"Last night, he did, yes," Bourbon replied calmly, his own voice willing me to stay rational. I was finding it highly difficult. I let out a sharp sigh, indicating my annoyance, but letting him know it was safe to continue.

Bourbon stepped to my side, and when he cleared my field of vision, I could see Spot, who had finally looked up, his face still miserable, looking at us with a new expression in his eyes. I could almost hear him wondering where this closeness had come from, this more-than-acquaintances relationship between Bourbon and me.

Well, let him wonder.

Bourbon surveyed the group, and I did the same. Spot was clearly upset, and Panic and Sprint were looking between us, their looks to me guilty, to Spot…was that pity?

"It's his mother," Bourbon said finally, and for a moment, my mind was empty. I even glanced around, wondering if perhaps there was some other "him" skulking in the shadows.

"Whose mother?" I asked dumbly, knowing the answer but not yet having comprehended fully.

"Mine," Spot said, finally speaking for the first time. His voice sent a shard of ice through my abdomen, and I stared at him.

"You have a mother?" I asked, forgetting for a moment that I wasn't technically on speaking terms with him. "I mean, an alive one?"

My own mother had died of tuberculosis when I was eleven, and as I had no other family to speak of, I moved into the lodging house a mere week after her death, when the rent I had no way of paying came due.

I had always assumed that none of us had mothers. If we did, what would we have been doing on the streets and in the lodging houses?

At my words, Spot's face tightened, and he looked up at me, his eyes simultaneously angry and pleading. "Not for long," he managed, his voice husky.

I stood there, in the middle of the room, in the middle of this bizarre conversation, and shook my head a few times, trying to clear it of extraneous thought enough to process this.

Luckily, Bourbon took over the explanations. "She wrote him last week saying she has cancer, and only has a couple weeks. So he came to be with her."

As I struggled to process this bit of news, I stared at Spot, who returned my gaze unblinkingly. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I would support him, comfort him. I wanted to slap the dickens out of him.

"Where was she before, when you were in Brooklyn?" I asked instead, feeling, in spite of myself, defensive in Spot's honor. I know damn well that if there had been any way for my mother to be with me, she would have been. What was this woman's excuse?

"In Brooklyn," Spot replied, once again studying his legs.

"She…what?"

"She was there," he said, looking up at me, his face set defiantly. "She couldn't take care of me, so I had to go to the lodging house."

I was desperately curious as to the reasoning behind all that, but managed to scrounge up enough tact to refrain.

"So now you're back," I said bitchily, loving the feeling and hating myself for it at the same time.

He didn't respond. Clearly, he thought the answer was obvious. Smug bastard.

"He's gonna stay with me and Paul," Bourbon said, his voice betraying his trepidation at my reaction to the news that Spot Conlon was to be sharing an apartment with him and Water. He and Water worked hard, both of them, Water carrying mail and Bourbon as a recently-promoted foreman in a steel mill on the outskirts of the City. They had an extra room, I knew—they were about the only ones in our group of friends who did.

I wanted to suggest he stay at the Brooklyn lodging house with the other children, but that seemed petty, so I merely nodded.

After that, everyone fell silent. I didn't know what I wanted to happen next. Did I want Spot and Bourbon to go? Did I want to have a moment alone with Spot? Or did I want that moment alone with Bourbon?

Luckily, Bourbon made the decision for me. "Look, uh, we're gonna give you guys a minute, okay? We'll just…" he trailed off, gesturing awkwardly to the kitchen, and left. Panic and Sprint followed, shooting me warning glares that clearly said, "Be careful, and don't be too big of a bitch."

And then we were alone.

Spot was still sitting on the couch, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head up, but his eyes not on me.

"What now?" I asked, my voice going steely without me quite meaning it to.

Spot turned his head, and for a moment, we locked eyes. Before I knew what I was doing, I was stepping forward, and he was rising from the couch. We met in the middle, and I flung my arms about his neck, pulling his face down to bury in the jut of my collarbone. His arms wrapped around my body, one about my shoulder blades, the other at my waist, dangerously close to my derrière.

His body was warm, and just as firm as I had imagined. He felt so much larger in my arms than he ever had before, and now, instead of smelling like boy and sweat and not a little dirt, he smelled like soap and sunshine and, oh yes, that was the smell of man.

I took a deep breath, inhaling his scent, and felt my ribs push against his chest and arms, He didn't loosen his grip, and I clung to him, one hand on the back of his neck while the other clutched at his shoulder.

And then, suddenly, I remembered. What he had done. What he had said. How he had run off.

I released him and jerked away, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"For what?" I asked, my voice dripping venom. "For hugging me, for leaving me, or for coming back?"

"Everything," he said, then walked away to join Bourbon and the girls in the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room, my body cold in all the places that had moments before been burning from his touch.

.

What? I know, so quick! I worked today, and since I work in a residential adolescent program, they were at school all day. So I had nothing to do other than answer phones, write this, and watch Intervention…

Review! :D


	5. Chapter 4

It's important to know that you should really download and listen to Secondhand Serenade's version of "Animal" while you read the

latter part of this chapter. And yes, that specific version is key.

That is all. Let the chapter begin!

.

I stood in the living room, alone and shell-shocked, for a couple minutes before the kitchen door opened and Bourbon poked his head out. When his eyes lit on me, he slipped through the half-open door and came to my side.

"Are you okay?" he asked, reaching out to touch me, but at the last second, stilling and pulling his hands back to his sides. He shoved them in his pockets.

"I guess," I replied, stepping closer to him, my entire body aching for him to touch me, hug me.

He took a step back, and my heart fell. This was it, then. This was what I had done. He would hold me when I was clearly in distress, but like this, when I was calm and together, he would hold himself apart. I had done this to myself.

Had I spoken too soon?

I looked up at him, into his face, and a rush of heat flowed up my spine and into my chest. I stepped forward and, before he could flinch away, wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my face into his chest.

He didn't move. Not away, and not to embrace me in return. "Please," I whispered, knowing I was hurting him, knowing I was a selfish, horrible person.

He exhaled, less of a sigh and more a lament, and wrapped his arms about me, one around my back and the other holding my head, securing my face to his chest. I could heart his heart pounding in my ear: fast, hard.

After a few moments, I released him, but didn't move away. We stood there, inches apart, both of us looking at our feet.

"Do you wanna go in there?" he asked, and I nodded.

He took my hand and led me into the kitchen, where Panic, Sprint, and Spot sat around the long table.

I didn't miss the way Spot's eyes zeroed in on our hands, or the way they narrowed briefly. I felt a pinch of victory, and then a whoosh of dismay. Was I clinging to Bourbon merely to make Spot jealous? Was I really that terrible of a person?

There wasn't time to contemplate my express trip to Hell, since Bourbon released my hand and sat, leaving an empty chair next to him, which I sank into. I was directly across from Spot, and across the thin table, I could feel the heat from his legs on mine.

We sat in painfully awkward silence for over a minute, which, if you've ever been in a tense situation, you know feels like ages. Finally, I cleared my throat, and, struggling to keep any menace out of my voice, said, "I think you boys should start this story at last night."

Bourbon nodded, and told of how he and the other men had traveled to Brooklyn as quickly as possible, arriving to find Spot sitting in the common room. Bourbon gave a wry smile and said, "He was just sitting there like he owned the place. It was pretty eerie to see, like stepping back three years."

Spot smirked at that, flicking his eyes to Bourbon, who gave a reluctant nod.

"I wasn't expecting all of them," Spot began, looking at a spot approximately three feet over my shoulder. "I thought it'd just be Ben, but then they all walked in. And Ben came right up to me and dragged me out of the chair…"

"And I said 'What the fuck are you doing here? Haven't you done enough to her?" Bourbon supplied, chancing a glance at me. I felt massively touched, honored that he would be so protective.

"And I just thought, 'What the hell is he talking about?'" continued Spot, shaking his head. "I never thought the two of you would still be…" he licked his lips. "Friends. I didn't think any of you would still be friends. I couldn't believe that two Brooklyn guys and four Manhattan boys would show up there together. I asked Ben what the hell he was talking about, and he said, 'You know what the fuck I mean,' and then it hit me: he meant you."

"I've never seen Skittery so pissed," Bourbon put in, and I turned surprised eyes to him. "He was like an angry older brother or something. He started yelling about how much you'd been hurt, and that he'd kill Spot if he even looked at you sideways."

At this, I felt even worse about sending the other boys away. They had gone there for me, had defended me.

I was not doing well at treating people right today.

"Finally, I just cut 'em all off and told 'em I hadn't come back to find you. I told 'em about my mother and that she'd written and told me…" Spot trailed off, and swallowed hard. "…Told me I needed to come," he finished, his voice raspy.

Everyone was silent, and I set my hands on the table and twisted my fingers together. "So you came back to be with your mother," I summarized, "And yet, you're here."

"She's in the hospital," he said, "They're trying to keep her comfortable until she can go home to...Anyway, I went to her apartment and it was a mess. I spent all day trying to clean it to get it ready for her to come home, but…"

"We'll help," Sprint offered, and I stared daggers at her. She looked back and pursed her lips, guilt in her eyes. "His mother is dying, Lydia," she said firmly, and Spot's eyes flew to my face.

"Lydia," he said softly, and I remembered: I had never told him my name. Ever. It had felt like I had given him all of me, and I had only that small thing—my name—to hold onto, to keep for myself.

I returned his stare and nodded, just once. He nodded back and looked back down at the table. "I really didn't come back to mess up your life. But Ben was my best friend, and I knew I needed a place to stay for a couple days. I figured the Brooklyn newsies might have an idea of where he was. I never expected that that kid, Jogger, was going to Queens. I didn't even know you were still there. And I had no idea that Ben would be here, either." He paused, and risked a look up. His eyes met mine, and it felt like staring into my own reflection, his were so identical to my own. "But I won't lie and say I didn't have a plan to try and find you after I got my mother settled."

I didn't drop my eyes, even though I had to fight the urge, and sat back, running a hand through my hair.

"Where was she when you were a newsy?" I asked, my voice softer and less judgmental than it had been all evening.

Spot looked around at the table, clearly uncomfortable with the audience. Ben leaned forward. "We won't tell anyone you don't want us to tell, Spot," he said, and it occurred to me for the first time that of all of us, the only one being called his newsy name was Spot. It was as though we all felt this new man in front of us was a stranger, and the only way to not forget who he was, was to call him by the name we had known him as. Or, more likely, it was a way to set him apart from the rest of us, to make it clear that he was no longer one of us.

"She…" he started, then his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "She couldn't take care of me," he said, and I felt a flash of frustration.

"You said that before," I said, willing myself to keep the aggravation out of my tone.

Spot exhaled and ran his hand over his mouth, as though bracing himself. "She was a drinker," he said, his voice toneless, as though the only way he could tell us was to recite it by rote. "She couldn't keep a job, she didn't cook, and we barely had money for food anyway. She bought liquor with what we had. She didn't take care of me, I took care of her. And when I was twelve, and she tried to throw me down the stairs of our building, I ran away. Went to the newsies."

We sat in stunned silence. It really felt as though my heart were struggling to escape my body, trying to climb out to get to him. It wasn't the first bad story I'd heard, being from the newsies, but they never stopped affecting me.

I had been given the best mother in the world. She was beautiful, and kind. She was a schoolteacher, and we didn't have a lot, but she made every day feel special. She made _me_ feel special. Then she got sick, and all our savings were eaten up by the quarantine ward she'd had to be put in. When she died, I had nothing except my clothing and a few pictures. There was a picture in my bedroom at this very moment, of my mother sitting for a still, her face unnervingly like mine, though her hair had been the blackest black, and held a gorgeous curl in a way mine never could. I remember the way it looked in the sunlight, almost blue, the black was so deep.

It hurt me that my mother had died and left me alone, but it was at least better to know that my mother hadn't left me on purpose, to know how spectacularly she had loved me, than to have to face that she simply hadn't wanted me.

"But she knew where to find you," I put in, trying to keep my voice steady. "She knew where you were. And you came back."

Spot nodded wearily. His face had gone pale under his tan, and he looked ready to cry. Or just throw up. "When I was sixteen, I saw her on the street. After that, I checked in on her every week, to make sure she had food and heat and clean clothes. And then…when I turned eighteen, I just…" he looked down, deliberately avoiding looking in my direction, "I just couldn't stay here anymore. I had to get out. When I got Upstate, I sent her my address, just in case. Last week was the first time I'd heard from her."

"You went to her apartment every week?" Bourbon repeated, sounding more than a little surprised. "How did I not know this?" he asked.

"I told you I was with a girl who had her own place," Spot said promptly, and Bourbon reeled back in his chair, eyes wide. And then he laughed, and Spot, after a small hesitation, joined in.

I pursed my lips and rolled my eyes in disgust at the both of them, not missing the implication that Spot had been such a rake that the story of meeting some woman for sex every week went unquestioned. Well, of course it did. Hell,_ I_ was one of those women. Thursday, he called me.

Panic and Sprint looked from the men to me, and each bit their lips, apparently close to laughter themselves.

As the men continued to laugh, I muttered, "Oh, for the love of God," and Bourbon, gasping slightly, calmed himself and threw his arm around my shoulder.

"Don't be mad, Thursday" he urged, still chuckling, and I gasped in horror, shocked that he remembered, and appalled that he would mention it. But…my face felt weird. Was I smiling?

This was getting weird. The boys were laughing, and the women were smiling indulgently. It was like we'd really gone back to when we were teenagers, to a party during the strike, where there was nothing but jokes and laughter to pass the time.

But this was different, I reminded myself. We were all grown up, now, and Spot Conlon, who had loved me, but left me anyway, was back to say goodbye to his dying alcoholic mother. I mean, what the hell? How did we get here? And how was I supposed to act?

Spot, finally done laughing, took in my expression and sobered immediately. "Lydia," he said, testing the sound of my name in his mouth, "Lydia, I know there's a lot we're gonna need to…"

"Brawl about?" I supplied, and Spot cracked a half-grin.

"Sure," he agreed. "But…all of you are the only people I know. I don't have anyone else. Can we…can we put everything else on hold? Just until…" he stopped, and the words "she dies," hung in the air, unsaid.

I took a deep breath and straightened in my chair, arching my back slightly, stretching my shoulders, buying time. I knew that now, when he was dealing with so much, so many memories and old hurts, was not the time to hash all this out. I knew that, whatever else had happened between us, once upon a time he had been my closest friend.

"I need you," he said, his face immediately reddening in embarrassment.

I stared at his face, feeling close to tears. When had Spot Conlon ever, in his life, admitted to someone that he needed them? Had he really changed? He seemed so mellow, so much softer than the hard, angry boy I had known. His head was tipped forward, his eyes on the table, and I could clearly see the cut of his jaw against his face. As I watched, it clenched and unclenched as he fought against whatever it was he was feeling.

He was too much of man to cry, but not strong enough to do this alone.

"It can wait," I said finally, and his head snapped up. "We have a lot of problems and issues to work out between us—between you and _all_ of us—but now isn't the time."

Bourbon nodded. "We'll help you, Spot."

Spot nodded, and looked around at all of us, from me to Bourbon to the silent and watchful Panic and Sprint. "Thank you," he said softly.

I sat back in my chair, satisfied. "And…Seth?" I said, and his name sent a tiny thrill through my stomach. He looked steadily at me and his mouth opened in surprise, but he didn't say anything. "You have to promise that if we do this for you, you won't run when it's over. You have to stay, at least long enough for all of us to work this all out." I paused, wondering how far to push. "You're not seventeen anymore. You can't just run away from us again."

Spot nodded seriously, his eyes liquid, poring over my face as he studied me with an intensity I hadn't seen in over three years. "I promise," he said, his voice nearly breaking. We both knew that the "us" I was referring to really meant us, him and me, and figuring out what that "us" even meant.

And then the mood was broken, as Panic stood and began making everyone tea. It was past nine-thirty on a Monday night, and the evening was winding down. I guessed that the boys would stay for another hour or so. Bourbon always claimed he didn't need much sleep, and it was true that he never seemed tired.

Sprint went to help Panic, who set Spot to the task of slicing bread and slathering it with jam.

I motioned to Bourbon, who looked cautious as he followed me out the door. As it swung shut, I caught a glimpse of Spot, turned to watch us go, his expression unreadable.

I led Bourbon across the living room and down the hall to my bedroom, where I shut the door. I sat on the bed while Bourbon stood, his hands shoved into his pockets, surveying the room like he'd never been there before.

"Can you sit down?" I asked him, my voice barely above a whisper. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, or why.

He pursed his lips, but sat, a good foot away from me. "This feels familiar," he said, his voice carrying an edge.

I remembered all too well, exactly a week ago, when I had perhaps made a huge mistake in this very room.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," I began, toying with the throw blanket at the foot of my bed. "I feel like…I'm scared I made a mistake last week," I said finally, the words pouring out of my mouth of their own accord.

Bourbon turned slowly to me, his expression guarded, his voice overly calm. "A mistake," he repeated.

I felt like sobbing. "I don't know!" I exclaimed. "I…I know I love you, Ben, please know that I do. I just…this whole thing with Sp—with Seth, I just…It's been a part of me for so long, and I thought I was doing the right thing when I let you go. You don't deserve to wait for me when I may never be ready."

"You said all this already, Lydia," Bourbon said, his eyes resting on his own knee.

"I know that," I replied, a little desperately. "It's just…Seth is back, and now…" I sighed, and decided to just bite the bullet and tell him the truth, even if it was more than a little mortifying. "Every single night, I imagine myself sleeping next to him," I said, and my chest squeezed when Bourbon flinched.

"I don't need to know this," he said gruffly, making to stand. I seized his arm and pulled him back down.

"But not last night," I said loudly, determined to get his attention. "Last night, after I'd found out he was back, and I was so…upset, I imagined who I wanted to comfort me, to lay with me, and it was you." I was breathing hard by now, my heart hammering in my chest. "I saw you."

Bourbon was sitting stock-still. I swear, he wasn't even breathing. "What are you saying?" he asked finally, looking me full in the face.

I closed my eyes against his dark gaze. "I don't know," I said truthfully. "I don't know what I feel for Seth, and I don't know what I feel for you. But I…" I paused, suddenly more nervous than ever before. "Will you kiss me?" I asked, and Bourbon recoiled as though I'd slapped him.

"What?" he breathed, his eyes going immediately to my lips.

"Please, Ben," I said, taking his hands in mine. They were dry, and rough, and warm, and felt so stable and substantial in my tiny hands.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine, gently, sweetly, then pulled back.

I didn't feel a thing. I frowned, my eyes filling with infuriating tears.

"What?" he whispered, his eyes nearly black. I recognized that look. It was desire, pure and simple.

"Not like that," I said, my voice low. "Don't kiss me like you're courting a lady. Kiss me like you mean it."

He stared at me, hard, as though trying to decide how serious I was, how much of himself he could let go of.

"I know it's a terrible thing to ask," I said, my voice wavering. "I'm a terrible person, and I know I'm hurting you. I know I'm being selfish, and foolish, and a huge, unbelievable bitch. I can't tell you I want to be with you. I can't tell you I'll make you happy. I can't guarantee you I don't love Seth. But I do know I want this."

Bourbon didn't answer, but stared into my eyes, his jaw tight. Then, in an instant, his pupils dilated and he launched himself forward, grabbing the side of my face in his hand, the other hand clasping my waist and pulling me forward, arching my back as my chest slammed into his. He lowered his mouth onto mine, open and warm, and as our lips met, we both gasped in shock, stealing the breath from one another. A hum zipped through my body, settling into my lady parts, which seemed to wake up, after three years, with an appetite.

I felt my body go slack, and fell back onto the bed. Bourbon didn't miss a thing as he wrapped his hands around my waist and scooted me up so my legs were on the bed, his lips never leaving mine. As I lay on my back, my arms wrapped around his neck to pull him closer, he dropped his weight into my body, and I nearly fainted, I swear to God. It had been so long since I had felt a man's weight on my body, and to have it be this man, this gorgeous man, was almost more than I could take.

His hands were under my body, on my back, and I took my arms from his neck to hold his face. His tongue invaded my mouth, and I moved my hands to his sides, pulling up his shirt as I scraped my nails against his ribs. He let out a pant and broke away from my mouth, and I took the opportunity to graze my teeth against the tendon on his neck. He groaned and ground his hips against mine. I could feel him, all of him, pressing into my now shrieking pelvis.

He was just lowering his mouth back to mine, "Oh, God," escaping his mouth, when there was a knock on the door.

We froze, his lips millimeters away from mine. I could feel his heart pounding, could feel his want of me pulsing into my pelvis. Which, by the way, wasn't going to help me stop.

"Lydia? Ben?" called Sprint's voice, and I really, truly wanted to stab her through the eye with a pencil. "Tea's ready."

I turned my head away from Bourbon's and called back, "Just a second!" making my voice as cheery as casual as possible.

As soon as I straightened my head, Bourbon kissed me again, this time a long, slow, deep kiss that made me feel at once aroused and supremely relaxed. We broke away, and he pulled me off the bed. I stepped over to the large mirror above the armoire and ran a comb through my mussed hair and my fingers over my slightly smudged makeup. When all outward traces of our almost-tryst were gone, I turned back to Bourbon, who was staring off into nothing, eyes glazed, his brow furrowed as though he were concentrating on something just out of reach.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If I think of the secretary at the mill, it always makes me go limp," he explained, his face still scrunched with focus.

I snorted, then covered my mouth with my hand, unable to stop myself from giggling. I felt like a schoolgirl in some cheap novel, almost getting caught with the gardener by the headmistress.

Sure enough, Bourbon's own physical evidence was fading, and within moments, we were exiting my bedroom, both looking presentable and as innocent as cherubs.

A half hour later, as the men were leaving, I hesitated over goodbyes with both of them. Should I hug Spot? Kiss Bourbon? I mean, really, what was expected here? What was appropriate?

Luckily, Bourbon left with his customary hand squeeze and kiss on the cheek, though his hand squeezed mine tighter than was perhaps usual, and maybe he didn't always press his face to mine in quite that way, and Spot seemed to be feeling the same uncertainty that I was.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Panic asked suddenly.

"Cleaning," he said, trying and failing to sound less than miserable about it.

"Lydia will help you," she replied immediately, and I stared at her in disbelief. She met my glare with a level gaze of her own, one that warned me to agree.

Somehow, I agreed to go to Brooklyn the next morning at nine, to meet Spot at some address that, as far as I knew, was in the slums of Brooklyn.

Spot wound up lifting a hand in farewell rather than hug or kiss anyone, and then they were gone.

"What the fuck was that?" I demanded, as soon as the door was safely shut and locked.

"I know what you and Ben were doing in there, Lydia," Panic began, sounding for all the world like a disapproving mother. "I'm not trying to tell you that you shouldn't be doing it. I think all of us wanna see you and Ben together. But you can't do that with him and still be unsure about Spot, Lydia. It's not right."

She was only saying what I had said over and over to myself, but it stung nonetheless. "I know that," I whispered, feeling once more like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

"So spend time with Spot. No," she corrected, "Spend time with Seth. Get to know him _now_, instead of hanging onto what he used to be."

"We just don't want anyone getting hurt," Sprint put in, her eyes crinkling with concern. "I mean, we love Ben, and we know what Spot did to you. But you should really spend some time with him anyway. Because if you don't, you'll never know how you feel."

I nodded. They were right, of course. Yet again, someone else knew better than I did what the right thing to do was. It seemed like I was always mucking everything up, always trying my best to treat people well but never really succeeding.

Maybe this, I could do right. I would spend the morning with Spot. No, Seth. From now on, no more hiding behind what used to be. From now on, Spot was Seth, and Bourbon was Ben.

They were no longer the boys I had known as a newsy. They were men. And this wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't part of a deal struck for protection and convenience, like all the rest had been.

It was time for me to figure out what and who I truly wanted. And the only way for me to do that was to really and truly _know_ the men I was choosing between.

I had no choice but to get to know Seth Conlon, the man Spot Conlon had grown into.

.

AN: No, I don't have any idea where this is going. No, I don't know who will end up with whom. YES, I'm having a blast finding out. :D Don't expect an update for a few days. I'm working 10 1/2 hours tomorrow, busy all day Saturday, then work all day Sunday. Weeee. :/

PS: TIGERS BEAT THE YANKEES-IN NEW YORK! ALCS, HERE WE COME! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA. God, I hate the Yankees.


	6. Chapter 5

The next morning, bright and early, I made my way to Brooklyn , edging into streets that grew more and more cramped and dirty as I went on. I am not, and most likely never will be, a wealthy woman, but I felt positively dripping with affluence in that neighborhood. My shining heeled black boots, my smoky gray skirt (another one that hugged my thighs and hips. So sue me. ), black belt, and my cobalt blue blouse with black lace detailing along the high-turned collar and down along the buttons made me, without doubt, the most expensively dressed woman in the area.

I seriously don't think that has _ever_ happened to me. I struggled though the new snow, the first meaningful snow of a late winter, my thick charcoal wool coat hanging to my knees with a double-breasted collar that I had turned up to ward off the chill, and wondered, idly, what Spot's plans were for Christmas, which was now a mere two days away.

We had made it a tradition in the lodging house to not put up one speck of decoration until Christmas Eve, when we spent the whole day (We had built up the reputation of the place so much that we'd convinced the City to allow us to let the girls stay for free from the 24th of December through January 1st) frosting the house with garlands, bows, and, of course, a tree with a great big star on top.

I would ask him to come, I told myself firmly. Even if this day was a disaster, I couldn't in good conscience let him spend Christmas all alone. The mere thought made me feel unbearably sad.

My treatment of people was rising already.

I reached the building number I had written on a small scrap of paper and looked up at it dubiously. Spot's mother lived on the second floor, which was certainly better that that one way up there on—what was it? I counted—the twelfth floor. Good God.

I took a deep breath and entered the building, hurrying down the pungent hallway that reeked of human waste and stale food, and up the stairs to the second floor, where the smell was no better. There was, at least, gas lighting in the hallways, which had become a requirement in 1901. Some of the more expensive tenements already had electric light, but not this one, apparently. As I passed the water closet, I noted that this tenement apparently had a shared sink—one cold water sink for the entire floor, which seemed to consist of six apartments total. I only hoped the pipes wouldn't freeze, as wasn't uncommon in the winter.

Reaching the door that read 2C, I knocked, tentatively at first, then, when there was no answer, with more authority. As I heard footsteps approach from the other side of the door, my stomach fluttered with nerves, and I cursed myself for being such a sissy.

The door swung open, and my jaw dropped. (I'm sure it was _very_ becoming.) Spot stood in the doorway, wearing only black trousers with a faint bronze pinstripe. His suspenders, no longer a red faded to pink, but a deep black, hung about his hips and legs. From about two inches underneath his navel and up he was completely naked.

And, Oh. My. God.

His abdomen was thick with muscle, his waist slim, pectorals firm. His collarbone stood out underneath his neck, and his shoulders were broad and round. His upper arms bulged even as he simply stood, holding the door open, and I could clearly see the tendons in his forearms. Every inch of his exposed body was covered with soft-looking blonde hair.

My barely-slumbering libido woke up singing.

"Hey," Spot said, not even trying to stop himself from smirking at the open-mouthed, wide-eyed look I was fixing his body with.

I started, shook my head a couple times, and blinked rapidly. "Uh…hi," I returned, always eloquent.

"Come on in," he said, his eyes dancing, standing aside to let me pass. He smelled like cigarettes and Tutti Frutti chewing gum, which they sold in vending machines on platforms all over the City.

He had a lit cigarette in one hand, and as he felt my eyes on it, he looked down, too. "Sorry," he said hastily. "I'll put it out."

"No," I said, holding out my hand. "I haven't smoked a cigarette since…" I stopped, plucked the cigarette from his fingers, held it to my mouth, took a good drag, and inhaled. I felt the nicotine slide through my veins. It felt amazing.

"Since when?" Spot asked as I exhaled luxuriously, his eyes knowing and not a little regretful.

I took another drag, inhaled, and on my exhale, replied, "You know when."

I was never a smoker, but sometimes, after sex, Spot and I would share a cigarette or two. It got to be something of a routine: great sex, relaxing cigarette.

Spot nodded, then lifted the cigarette from my fingers with two of his own, holding it to his mouth. When he handed it back to me, it tasted like gum. It was slightly wet.

It felt and tasted exactly like I remembered. Spot had always had a bit of an obsession with Tutti Frutti gum, and had never been without a supply in his bedroom. He always chewed it after sex, and I always found it incredibly intimate that when we smoked the same cigarette, I could taste his chewing gum.

Spot's eyes locked into my own, and I knew he was sifting through the same memories I was. I didn't look away as I passed the cigarette back to him, his fingertips brushing mine like a whisper.

We stood there, passing the cigarette back and forth, until it was gone. Spot stubbed it out in an already overflowing ashtray, and for the first time, I took a look around me.

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the camel," I said

"The Wise Men bailed out right when they walked in," he replied, and I cut my eyes to him. He was trying not to smile. I felt my hand shoot out all on its own, to backhand his bare shoulder playfully. He cackled and hopped away, his muscles clenching.

"But really. This is…holy shit," I said, looking around. There was no carpet, which wasn't unusual, but most tenements I had been in at least had a rug. Here, the floor was a bare, wide-planked non-descript wood. The walls were impossibly thin and plain white. No attempt at decoration had been made.

There was a small sofa against the right wall, and a tiny coffee table. On the left wall, there was a small makeshift divider, with a tiny brass bed visible under a dirty bare mattress. There was a small eating area with a wooden table only big enough to seat two, and two mismatched wooden chairs. There was a counter in the kitchen that held only rotten fruit and moldy bread. The wood-burning stove looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since its installation, and there was no wood to be found.

And every single surface: floor, walls, countertops, was covered in a thick layer of grime, and there was rubbish everywhere. The floor under my feet let out a sticking squeal of protest whenever I shifted my feet. It smelled like rotten food, dirty clothing, and, yes, there it was: stale booze.

"This is what your mother has been living in?" I asked, my eyes still roaming around the room.

Spot didn't answer, but strode to the far wall to push open the lone window, and I could see the tension in his neck and back as he moved. The icy air billowed in immediately, but I didn't mind. I'd take freezing over the smell of this dump any day.

When he returned, I could see goosebumps on his chest and arms. As he shifted the barrel he had been using as a trash can, I removed my coat and gloves, then unbuttoned the sleeves of my blouse to roll them up to my elbows.

"This outfit was a horrible choice," I muttered, berating myself for being more concerned with looking gorgeous than the reality that I was here to clean.

"I thought you might need these," Spot said, and turned, reaching into a bag that was conspicuously cleaner than the rest of the apartment. He tossed me two items, and I immediately recognized them. They were mine. Chocolate brown pants and a salmon pink shirt, both worn soft by countless washings.

I gasped, staring down at them. "Where did you get these?" I breathed.

Spot, for his part, looked a tad embarrassed. "You left them once," he said softly. "You wore them over late at night, 'cause no one was around to see, but you brought girl clothes to wear out in the morning. You forgot them."

I clutched my clothes, my beloved pants and shirt, the clothes I wore when feeling particularly defiant, and stared at him. "And you kept them?" I asked, pressing them to my chest.

Spot, his eyes zeroed in on mine, stepped forward, and laid his hands gently on the bundle of cloth in my arms. He rubbed a piece of the shirt between his fingers. "Yeah," he said, his voice barely more than a murmur.

I wanted to kiss him. Well, actually, if I'm being honest, I wanted to jump his very bones right there in that filthy apartment.

But no. Falling into sex was what my teenaged self would have done with Spot Conlon. This was Seth. Seth. Seth.

It had to be different this time, I told myself savagely. I needed to know him outside of a bedroom.

I settled for laying my hand on his and clutching at his fingers, which were turning cold in the rapidly cooling room.

Then I turned, and went into the small makeshift bedroom, hiding behind the half wall, peeling down to my corset, chemise, and drawers. I debated for a moment on the merits of comfort versus style, then wrenched myself out of my corset, taking in a deep, beautiful breath as I did. I wrapped my corset in my skirt and blouse, then, in only my chemise and drawers, which were one piece of fabric, I stepped into the pants, which still fit like a dream. I pulled the soft shirt over my head, loving the feel of the oft-washed fabric on my arms.

"Here," Spot called, tossing a pair of flat boys' shoes over the wall. "I grabbed 'em from the lodging house on the way, just in case."

As I slid my stocking feet into the shoes, which were just my size, I marveled at this thoughtful man. Spot Conlon never would have taken the time to remember to bring me comfortable clothes, or made an extra trip just to get me shoes in case mine wouldn't work. Seth Conlon, it appeared, would. And did just that.

I gathered my discarded clothes and walked back into the main room. Spot offered me the bag, and I slipped my clothes into it, finding an elastic in the bottom and pulling it out.

I whipped my hair into a messy bun, shorter pieces that I couldn't seem to grow out falling to the sides of my face.

When I was done, I turned around, and Spot's face went pale.

"What?" I asked, looking behind me at the dirty couch, expecting some sort of animal to be sitting there, ready to attack.

"You look…" he trailed off and shook his head slowly. "You look like you," he finished, then cleared his throat. "I mean, you look like you used to."

I didn't really know how to respond to that, so I just nodded. "Should we get started?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

What did it matter if the sight of me looking like "me" made his face go pale and his voice go weak. Who the fuck cared? Not this girl.

I snuck a look behind me as I cleared trash off the floor. Spot was clearing up, too, moving faster than even I was, but his eyes rested on my hands, my back, my legs, my hair, my face, my chest, almost falling out of the v-necked shirt. I felt my body grow hot under his gaze.

Okay, so, maybe this girl.

Within forty-five silent minutes, we had all the trash picked up. Spot dragged it downstairs while I filled a basin I had found in a cupboard with cold water from the sink in the hall.

I was puzzling over how exactly to heat water without any wood when Spot came back in, his arms full of exactly that.

"I thought we'd need this. You got water, right?" he said, dumping the wood on the freshly cleared countertop.

"Yes…" I said slowly, as I watched his expertly load the wood into the stove, then light it with a match from his pocket. Before I could even move, he had lifted the heavy basin onto the stove, his muscles straining.

I was studying him curiously when he turned to face me. "What?" he asked, wiping a paranoid hand over his face.

"You're different," I said, my voice wary.

His brow furrowed, and he sat down in one chair. "Different how?" he asked, picking up his under shirt from the table and yanking it over his head. Damn.

"You're efficient," I said, gesturing to the stove, where the wood was cracking happily.

"What was I before, helpless?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"No," I replied seriously, "You were lazy and arrogant." He recoiled slightly. "Don't look like that," I went on. "I'm not saying you couldn't get things done, you just preferred that someone else got it started. You always expected people to come to you, to do for you."

"And now?" he asked, looking slightly wounded by my words.

"You knew that I was going to need a fire for the water. You brought me my clothes, and made a stop on the way to get me shoes, 'just in case.'"

"Yeah…" he replied, leaning forward slightly, his body urging me to go on.

I threw up my hands and sank into the other chair, leaning back briefly before snapping back upright. The back of the chair had cracked ominously at my weight. "I swear, this chair breaks, I'm not gonna eat for a week," I said without thinking, and was rewarded by a laugh unlike I had ever heard out of his mouth.

It was loud, free, open. The Spot Conlon of my youth would have never laughed with such abandon. Even when happy, Spot Conlon was guarded, cautious.

"And you laugh," I added. "You seem…so much happier than before."

He studied me for a moment before nodding thoughtfully. "I guess I am. Upstate, it's so open, and the people are so nice."

"What do you do up there?" I asked, realizing for the first time that I had no idea what this man, who knew every aspect of my professional life, having been in that world for years himself, did for a living.

"I got work on a farm right after I left. There's so much to do: repairs, working with horses, planting, harvesting, everything. They always need people willing to work."

"And _you_ were willing?" I asked dryly, unable to imagine Spot Conlon, who was strong and willful in his own way, but, as I had said, supremely lazy, doing manual labor.

"I needed it," he said, and his eyes bored into mine such an intensity that my heart pounded once, and I had to look away. "I had to leave. But then I couldn't…I couldn't stop thinking; I was all in my own head, and it was making me crazy. I needed air, and hard labor, just to…" he stopped, his breath coming quickly, and I doubted he had ever shared so much with anyone.

"Forget?" I supplied.

"Exactly." He stood, coming around the table. My chair was sideways at the table, and he came to crouch in front of me, steadying himself on the table with his right hand. "I was an asshole. I was always such a fucking asshole. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I was actually nice to you."

"I'm sure that's true," I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. "I had to do some forgetting of my own after you left. I don't think it worked all that well," I added, looking down at his smooth, dewy face, which was wrinkled with—pain? Hurt?

"I know we said we wouldn't deal with this right now, Lydia, but, I can barely look at you. We can end this conversation here, but I just…I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was an asshole, and I'm sorry I ran."

I was, to completely understate it, flabbergasted. I had known, of course, through his expressions and body language, that he was sorry. That was the way it had always been with him—I had studied him like I was going to be tested, learning what he was feeling by the furrow of his brow, the quirk of his mouth, the tension in his stance.

"That may be the only time you've ever shared any kind of emotion with me other than when you told me you couldn't be what I wanted."

He shook his head, hanging it, resting it on my knees. I didn't move away. He looked up and his eyes had reddened, and the tendon in his neck was quivering. "I couldn't be, Lydia. Not at the time."

"And now?" I asked, not knowing whether or not I wanted to know, or even sure whether it mattered.

"Did you really love me, Lydia?" he asked, his eyes full of what I could only identify as anguish. "I was horrible to you."

"Well, I guess I'm a glutton for punishment," I replied, feeling my throat tighten and my eyes begin to sting. "Because I really, really did."

"And what about now?" he asked, moving both hands so they clung to the sides on my chair, the curves of his thumbs pressing into my legs.

"I don't know who you are anymore, Seth," I said, feeling my eyes well. I blinked, and a tear escaped, splashing onto my cheek. "I need to figure that out before I know anything."

He looked down again, and I saw, before his face was hidden, that he had squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled heavily, then shook his head at his own knees before looking back up.

"So you get to know me," he said, and though his voice was strong, there was the faintest note of a quiver underneath the bravado.

I nodded, and without further though, slid out of the chair and into his arms, my knees sliding between his to hit the filthy floor. He shifted to kneel in front of me, and buried his face in my neck, both arms wrapped at the small of my back. I wrapped my arms as tightly as I could around his neck, pulling him as close as the laws of physics would allow.

When we finally broke apart, I laughed shakily. "I don't think we've ever hugged this much," I said, adjusting my shirt, which had ridden up, revealing the thin, nearly sheer cream chemise against my skin.

Spot chuckled softly, only managing a half smile, and I put my hand to the side of his face. It was as soft as I remembered. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his cheek, savoring the feel of his faint stubble on my mouth. He turned his head slightly to lean into my hand, and when I pulled away, his eyes were closed.

He opened his eyes and fixed them on me. "So what now?" he asked softly, and at the vibration from his voice, I realized my hand was still resting on his cheek.

I lowered it, trying to be casual, and slapped my hands on my thighs. "Now we finish up here," I said, injecting a slightly manic cheer into my tone.

It took until nearly four that afternoon, and we had to stop to go to a nearby hole-in-the-wall restaurant for lunch, but finally, we were done. The place was nowhere near homey, but the floors were clean, and we had managed to find clean blankets and sheets in a closet, enough to cover the bed and couch. The countertops, table, and chairs had been scrubbed, and I had even run a sponge soaked in hot water and vinegar over the walls and doors. The window had been likewise scrubbed with newspaper and vinegar, and the light entering the tiny tenement was clear and strong.

There was fresh milk, bread, cheese, and fruit on the counter, near the open window to keep cold.

And we had talked. Mostly about nothing. We had laughed, and thrown balls of newspaper at one another.

It reminded me of the afternoon we spent swimming in the filthy East River, dunking each other and floating on our backs, just two kids forgetting the world for a couple hours.

That feeling of forgetting, that's what that whole afternoon felt like. Suddenly he wasn't the boy who had broken my heart; he was just a beautiful man who wanted to spend time with me.

Spot was scheduled to pick up his mother at five, and by four fifteen, I had changed back into my clothes. Spot insisted I take his bag and keep my pants and shirt, along with the shoes he had taken for me.

"So, I wanted to ask you if you wanted to come over tomorrow. We spend the whole day decorating on Christmas Eve, and have a big dinner, then take the girls to Midnight Mass," I said, all in a rush, as I clutched at the bag containing my clothes.

Spot looked surprised but pleased as he said, "That sounds…it sounds great.."

I smiled. "Good. And just so you know, uh, we've kind of made it unto a reunion-type thing in the last couple years. Everyone comes over around eight for dinner, then we all go to Mass together and have a little party when we get back and the girls go to bed."

Spot's brow lifted. "Who is 'everyone'?" he asked, looking suspicious.

"Everyone-everyone," I replied. "All the people who still live here, and the ones who come back for the holidays. A lot of my girls, and most of the Manhattan boys, and a good amount of Brooklyn's guys, too."

Spot looked a little overwhelmed, but managed to cover well. "Sounds good," he said, no trace of nervousness in his voice, but I could see it in his eyes. He already felt like an outsider in my little group—how was he going to feel as the crasher of our Christmas Eve party?

"So, I better go, then," I said awkwardly, and stepped close to quickly buss him on the cheek.

He let me get halfway down the hall before he practically leapt through the doorway. "Hey, Lydia?" he called.

I shuddered to a stop, and turned back. He looked incredibly awkward in the hallway, standing as though he had no idea what to do with his arms or hands. He settled for pulling his still hanging suspenders up and over his shoulders.

"I know this is a lot to ask, but…I don't have anyone I really want to meet my…" he sighed, and ran his hands roughly over his face, as though scrubbing it clean. "Will you come with me?" he asked finally, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

I opened my mouth without knowing what I was going to say, and was slightly shocked to hear myself agree.

"Where is she?" I asked, after he had dashed back inside to grab his shirt, vest, and heavy coat. His shirt was a burnt orange, his vest matching his trousers, and his coat a simple black wool.

He cleared his throat. "The Bastille," he replied, with the note of fear that every native New Yorker felt when mentioning the New York Cancer Hospital, the place where everyone with cancer went to die. I nodded, keeping my face impassive, as the same trill of fear rippled through my body.

The New York Cancer Hospital was called The Bastille after the prison-fortress in Paris, destroyed in the 1700s. The name had been adopted to refer to the Hospital as a place where people with terminal cancer were jailed.

Every New Yorker gave the place a wide berth, which was difficult given its location at 455 Central Park West, and its huge size. It was, on a gorgeous summer day, a beautiful building, with dark orange brick and iron moldings, with pointed, iron-encased peeks at the roofline. In the winter, on a dark, cloudy day like today, it would look like a medieval torture castle.

There was really nothing to be done for cancer except pain management, and people from all over the country came to The Bastille simply to pass away in relative peace, numbed by morphine.

As we hopped from trolley to trolley, slowly making our way across the bridge into Manhattan, and walked the last few blocks in the darkening street, I finally asked what had been on my mind since Spot had told us he was bringing his mother home to die.

"Why are you bringing her back there, Seth? Why don't you just let her…I mean, keep her there until…" There was really no tactful way to put that, clearly.

Spot sighed, and I tried to study his face, though it was quickly being taken over by shadow. "When I got here, I tried to convince her to stay. But she hates it there. She pretty much hates everyone, really. She basically made it hell on all the nurses and doctors in the two days it took me to get here. I think she knew I wouldn't want to bring her home, so she made it so that _they_ asked me to."

"The _doctor_ asked you to take her home?" I repeated, a bit incredulous at how vicious his mother must be, to make a cancer doctor, who dealt with the dying every day, suggest she get the hell out.

"Yeah. So that tells you something."

"So…Wait," I said, pulling on the arm of his coat as we approached the entrance to the imposing hospital. "Seth, why are you doing this for her? Why did you even come back to help her?"

He looked into the street, where people hurried home, and vendors packed up their wares. His eyes were intense, and I could almost see the memories of his life with his mother flicking through his head.

"I don't know," he said finally, still looking over my shoulder, his face, in the shadows, looking even more beautiful than before, all planes and angles, his five o'clock shadow clearly pronounced, giving him that scruffy look that I have always been a sucker for. "I really don't. She…I know she never wanted me," he said, and the way he said it, his voice devoid of any emotion, made me want to sob. "I don't even know if she ever loved me. But…" he shrugged. "I can't explain it. I know I don't owe her this, but I feel like I need to do it. She wasn't a good mother, but she's the only one I had." He looked down at me. "Does that make sense?"

I shrugged. "I guess," I said, my eyes on his jaw, which he was clenching tightly. "I don't know that I would do it, but I won't try to tell you not to. If this is what you think is right, then it's right."

"I never knew you trusted my judgment so much," he said, and for once, the smirk he gave me made me glad instead of enraged.

We entered the hospital, stated our names and purpose, and were led into the circular woman's ward, where Spot headed immediately to the bed closest to the door on the left.

A woman, much younger than I had been expecting, sat against the pillows on top of a neatly made bed, fully dressed. Her hair, once probably the same color as Spot's, was now a dull brown with gray streaks, horrendously thin. Her skin was sallow and pale, and she was nearly emaciated. As we approached, she looked up, and it was clear where Spot had gotten his eyes. Hers were the piercing blue-green that his were, though hers were slightly clouded with illness where Spot's still sparkled.

"Finally," she snapped, getting off the bed and wrenching open the small wardrobe to seize a small carpetbag. "Now I have to ride the trolley back home in the dark."

"We were cleaning the house, Mama," Spot said patiently, and I gaped at him, using such an endearment.

"There was nothing wrong with my house!" she exclaimed as though insulted, and I had to physically restrain myself from snorting in response.

Spot tried to take the carpetbag from her and take her arm, but she waved him off. "I feel fine! That idiot doctor says a lot of people feel strong at the end, and that it's an, uh…" she searched for word, "Illustration, or something."

"Illusion?" I surmised, and she looked at me for the first time.

"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously. "Are you a social worker? You look like one in them fancy clothes. I don't need your help! I feel fine. I done decided I'm gonna live, anyway."

"Mama, this is Lydia," Spot said, gesturing to me, "She's a…an old friend."

"An old friend you palled around with when you ran away from your poor mama?" she said fiercely, and I swear on my life, cancer or not, I wanted to slap the ever-loving hell out of her. Wasn't this "poor" woman the same one who had been a probably abusive drunk, and, when she wasn't neglecting her son, had tried to toss him down a flight of stairs?

"Yes, Mama," was all Spot said in return as he led her out of the room. After we had signed papers, we set off down the street, Spot's mother, who instructed me to call her "Mrs. Conlon, nothin' else," walking briskly ahead of us.

"She doesn't seem like she's on her death bed," I murmured, once I was sure she was out of hearing range.

"She is," Spot replied grimly. "That 'illusion'? It's true. The doctor said yesterday that a lot of people start to feel better in the last couple weeks, and that it doesn't mean anything. He said she'd be like this—acting like she's gonna live. But she's had liver cancer for the last three years, and it's all over her body now. This is the end."

He said it with such finality, such a lack of emotion, that my stomach lurched. I could only imagine—but didn't want to—the emotions he must be feeling. It was clear, however, that even after all these years away from her abuse, she still controlled him in some way—at least enough to bring him down from Upstate and do everything she asked.

It's human nature that we all want to be loved by our mothers. Most of us are lucky, and that love comes naturally for the mothers we're given. But some of us, like Spot, are cursed with mothers who don't want or love us, and so we do everything we can think of to be good enough to deserve their love, not realizing that it's not we who don't deserve them, but they who don't deserve us.

"Hurry up, boy," Mrs. Conlon snarled, not turning around. "I won't have you keeping me from my tea and bed."

Spot stiffened, and increased his pace. I felt my heart splintering at this man trying so hard to please this terrible woman, to possibly, in her last weeks, make her see that he was good enough for her.

I hurried after him, removing my left glove and stuffing it in my pocket. When I reached Spot's side, I reached over and took his bare hand in mine, feeling his calloused palm under my soft one. His head snapped to the right, and he looked down at me, surprise in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," was all I could think to say. I squeezed his hand, and as we boarded the first trolley of many that would take us back to that tiny tenement, his fingers grasped mine tightly, and I could feel his heartbeat in his thumb, pulsing quickly and heavily on the back of my hand.

.

AN: I basically have half of chapter six written. It was going to be part of this one, but it was soooo long, I decided to break it up. I'm alone and bored at work again, so I MAY be finishing it today….otherwise, don't expect a chapter until the end of the week.

PS: My ass is heading to Detroit tomorrow to see the Tigers/Rangers ALCS Game 3! AHHHH, so excited!


	7. Chapter 6

It was a tense trip, but somehow, finally, we made it back to the apartment. Mrs. Conlon allowed Spot to help her up the stairs, but shook him off as she headed down the hallway. He trailed behind her. I couldn't see his face, not from my vantage point behind him, but I could clearly see the droop in his shoulders as he followed his mother.

Mrs. Conlon reached the door and snapped her fingers impatiently. "The key, boy," she ordered. Spot hastened to open the door, and for the first time, I noticed his fingers trembling slightly, whether in anger or hurt I couldn't tell. I wanted to shove her through the doorway and pull him back into the hall to just wrap my arms around him. My chest was aching with pity and sadness for him, and my stomach flipped with rage every time she opened her mouth.

We entered the apartment, where the only acknowledgement Mrs. Conlon made of our nine-hour cleaning spree was a slight purse of her lips. She went immediately to her bedroom and emptied the contents of her carpetbag onto the clean floor. I exhaled in frustration and rolled my eyes. Spot turned, not missing my expression, though I quickly arranged my features into what I hoped was a neutral expression. He said nothing and turned back to face his mother, who crossed the living room and went into the kitchen, where she put water on to boil without commenting on the newly cleaned stove and stack of wood, neatly arranged.

We stood in awkward silence as the water boiled, which, with all of us watching, seemed to take longer than was usual. Once her tea was made, Mrs. Conlon took her mug and went to her bed, yanking the sheet we'd rigged on an old rod screwed into the wall shut, effectively shutting us out.

While Spot went to the kitchen to take the spitting pot off the stove and turn down the flame, I stood in the living room, rubbing my temple with my hand, trying to keep from storming into her "room" and choking the life out of her.

Spot walked right by me and collapsed onto the couch, leaning back and tilting his head so his face pointed toward the ceiling. His eyes were tightly closed, and his brows pulled in while his mouth puckered. I sat gently down next to him, trying my best to stay inconspicuous. He sat that way for a moment more, then opened his eyes and relaxed his neck, still leaning back on the couch.

"Are you okay?" I murmured, keeping my voice as low as possible.

"What?" he asked, trying and failing to look bemused, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Don't start that crap with me," I snapped, my voice still barely above a whisper. I hitched my left knee up onto the couch and folded my calf under my right leg, so that I was sitting sideways, facing his profile. "You forget that once upon a time you didn't _tell_ anyone anything about how you felt. I can read your body language like a goddamned book."

He didn't turn his head, and instead stared straight in front of him. Suddenly, his eyes looked tired, but his jaw was firmly set. "And what'd you see?" he asked, a bit of belligerence creeping into his tone.

"That you're frustrated and nervous, not to mention hurt and sad. And everything you do screams that you're looking for her approval." As I spoke, I pulled at a loose thread on my trousers, not looking him in the eye, a little afraid he was going to take all his emotions out on me and really let me have it.

"Looking for approval?" he sneered, still looking straight ahead. He attempted a smirk and failed spectacularly, managing only a pained grimace.

"Seth, stop." I said, with the tone of someone speaking to a wayward child. "Just stop. Enough. All you ever did with me before was pretend and hide. I'm done with that. So if you're gonna sit there and act like everything's great, then I'll just go, and you can be 'just great' all by your damn self." As I had been speaking, my voice had risen slightly, and I had stood from the couch, facing him, my whole body tense with aggravation.

I turned to stomp away, and his hand shot out and grabbed my knee, holding in me in place. "What?" I huffed, tossing my hands onto my hips for good measure.

"Please stay," he said, speaking to my knee. "I'm sorry, just…please stay." He looked so lost, that my heart softened, and, with only a heavy sigh to show my reluctance (which was fading quickly, to be totally honest) I sat back down.

When Spot threw his right arm about my shoulder, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. His arm stretched across my left shoulder and behind my neck, his hand cupping my right shoulder. I leaned into his side, and was pleasantly surprised to find that, all his physical changes notwithstanding, we still fit together, side by side, perfectly. I laid my head on the side of his chest, scooting closer until my hip was flush with his. I crossed my right leg over my left and pivoted slightly, reaching my right arm across both our bodies, gripping his left side, and gave him a tight squeeze.

His right hand clamped down upon my right shoulder, and his whole arm contracted, pulling me, if possible, even closer. When my body was twisted and smushed against his, he brought his left hand over to hold me at the ribs.

"We're hugging again," I managed, my voice muffled by the mouthful of shirt I had gotten.

"Shut up and hug me, woman," he replied, his mouth at my ear, and when his hot breath flowed over my ear and neck, my whole body shivered of its own accord. He loosened his hold on me and I pulled away slightly. One arm still around my shoulders, he took my face in the other hand.

"Before, did I ever thank you for anything?" he asked, stroking my cheek with his thumb.

"I'd have to say definitely not," I replied, my eyes fixated on his lips.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I really needed you here today. For all of it."

And then he kissed me. His lips, incredibly soft and warm, met mine gently. He held the pressure for a moment, and when he was sure I wasn't going to flee, turned his head to the right and deepened the kiss.

I felt like my entire body was buzzing. I could feel everything, from the top of my head to the tips of my ears to my fingertips. My toes curled and my hands wrapped themselves in the stiff fabric of his vest. His arm did not move from my shoulder, and his hand was pressed to my face. Gone were the wandering hands, the boy who wanted it all and wanted it fast.

This man, Seth Conlon, was willing to move as slowly as I wanted him to, to kiss me softly until he was positive I needed more. To keep his hands still. This man was willing to wait.

And this man was…was…what was he doing?

Out of nowhere, Spot's mouth tightened on mine, then his lips pulled back to bare his teeth, while both hands clamped down on whatever piece of skin they were attached to. His short nails still managed to lightly scrape my cheek, and I jerked away to look at him.

His face was set in a grimace of what looked like intense physical pain, but when he dragged in a breath, his face changed just slightly, and it hit me like a brick in the face that this pain was certainly not physical.

I couldn't move very far, not with him still gripping me, but it looked like—and call me crazy if you must—that this man was, at this moment, trying very, very hard not to cry.

I gaped at him for a moment, my mouth open in an O of astonishment. I had seen him the previous night with watery, tearful eyes, but I would bet my life and everything I owned that not one tear fell before sheer force of will dried them away.

He opened his eyes, and the torment I saw in them made my breath catch. He didn't make a sound, didn't even breathe, but everything about his face and body screamed, "Help me."

I put my hands on either side of his face. "Oh, Seth," I breathed, and his eyes fluttered closed. His body contracted, suddenly and brutally, each muscle pulling into itself, with an eerily silent sob, and he lowered his head to rest on my shoulder. My hands on the back of his head, with one of hands still on my face, and the other on the back of my neck, we probably looked like two people trying to drown each other.

"It's okay," I soothed, and he shook his head, pushing away from me and standing, his face still twisted. He strode over to the curtains hiding his mother, and for a brief moment, I imagined him taking hold of her neck and squeezing the life out of her.

At this point, I'd probably help him ditch the body.

But he merely looked, and I, treading carefully, followed, peeking in as well. His mother was fast asleep, with two large wads of cotton sticking out of her ears. We probably could have stood next to her bed and screamed profanities into her face, and she wouldn't have heard a peep.

Convinced his mother could hear nothing, Spot let the curtain fall. It swept into my face, and I sputtered and batted it away as he crossed the room, his strides angry. When I finally turned, he had seized the pitcher of milk his mother had poured into her tea and flung it with all his strength into the wall.

It shattered with a great crash, milk flying all over the clean wall and floor, the shards careening every which way, flying into nooks and crannies, where they were sure to never be recovered.

I didn't even have the brain power to gasp, or call out, as he took hold of one of the kitchen chairs and slammed it into the wall, where the old, dry wood splintered like a stick.

When he reared back to give it another whack, my power of speech finally kicked in, and I managed to croak out, "Seth!" which was nowhere near as loud as I had intended, but seemed to reach him nonetheless.

I could quite literally see the fight slip out of his body, and he dropped the chair, and then followed its path, dropping to his knees amidst the shards of broken pottery and fractured wood.

A sob, sounding something like a muffled shout, escaped his mouth, and, still clinging to the remains of the chair, he seemed to crumple, curling in on himself, his elbows on his thighs the only thing keeping him from lying on the floor in a ball.

Heedless of the hazards on the floor, I rushed to his side, dropping to my own knees on the floor. I felt a piece of the pitcher imbed in my knee, but it barely registered. He was crying in earnest now, and seemed to not even know I was there, he was so far enthralled in his own torment.

I pulled the chair from his hands and set it aside. I had no idea what to do.

I had seen men cry, of course: Bourbon, for one, that fateful night a week before, though that had been muffled, subtle. David's father had died in a factory accident a year before, and we had all been there at the funeral, where he, his mother, Les, and Sarah had all cried freely.

But this was different. For one, I had never seen any man weep with this kind of violence, this intensity that made my insides shrivel.

And this was Spot Conlon. This was the King of Brooklyn. This was the man who smirked and swaggered.

Wasn't it?

Had _all_ the rules changed in the years when Spot Conlon became Seth? Or was this particular episode still something that had never happened, still something to treat as a tragedy?

Whichever, it _felt_ like a tragedy.

I leaned forward, surely digging the pottery further into my knee, and took his hands, which, now free, hung limply in front of him. As soon as my skin made contact with his, he let out a soft moan and moved away before I could blink, standing and going to the kitchen, where he leaned both hands on the counter, head hanging and struggling to gain some control.

I eased myself off the floor and saw, to my dismay, a bloodstain spreading across the knee of my skirt, a long shard of the pitcher pinning my skirt to my knee. I yanked it out impatiently and hurried over to the curtain dividing Spot's mother from the wreckage in the rest of the apartment.

Still sleeping.

Praising the gods for small blessings, I went to the kitchen, where Spot, having quieted, stood in the same position, his back heaving with every breath. Before I could convince myself not to, I crept up behind him and grabbed hold of his wrists. He jumped, and his head raised, but he didn't move, so I stepped closer, pressing my front to his back and moving my hands so I could wrap my arms around him.

As my hands pressed into his stomach, I could feel the muscles there quivering with exertion, and he straightened to cover my hands with his own, pulling them forward so I was flush with his body. He squeezed my arms to him, placing his mouth to my forearm, then turned around, facing me but unable to look me into the eye.

He was still crying, I saw, but no longer quite so spectacularly.

"Oh, honey," I said, without thinking of what such an endearment may mean, and not particularly caring. If this weren't a "honey" moment, nothing was.

He shook his head, pursing his lips. "I'm fucking pathetic," he managed. "I came back here for-for _that_—he jerked his head toward his mother's room, "and I fucking brought you here, and you had to see all of it, and then I—" his eyes went to the aftermath of his breakdown, "And then what do I do? I fucking cry. I just—fuck!" he exclaimed, as another tear rolled down his cheek. He blinked and tossed his head, clearly furious with himself.

"It's not pathetic," I insisted, watching as another tear fell and rolled onto his lip, where he licked it away. "It breaks my heart, but it's not pathetic."

"How is not pathetic?" he shot back. "She doesn't love me," he said, and his voice broke. "She never loved me, and she never wanted me, and she's never going to. Taking care of her while she dies isn't gonna change that." More tears fell, and he swore again, exhaling in pure frustration.

"Look at me," I demanded, taking his face in my hands. As soon as his eyes were on me, I continued, as firmly as I could muster, "You are _not _pathetic. That woman in there is supposed to be your mother, and no matter what she may have told you, it's not your fault she was a piece of shit. You took care of her all those years and kept an eye on her after you left the house. You gave her a way to find you when you left the City. And you came back here when she said she needed you.

"If she still doesn't appreciate you after all that, then she never will. And it's not your fault," I added, when he closed his eyes and a low keening note broke from his throat. "It doesn't mean you're a bad son, it means she's a fucking bitch.

"But it doesn't make you pathetic to try. It makes you _good_."

Eyes still closed, Spot pinched them tightly, forcing tears onto his cheeks, then refocused on me. "I hate her," he whispered, and I wanted to applaud him.

"You should," I replied. "But you can hate her and still do this. I don't think you'd ever forgive yourself if you didn't. But when it's over, forget every vile thing she ever said to you, and every terrible thing she did."

He shook his head. "It's not that easy," he said, his voice still a rough whisper. "I was the way I was back then because of her. Because she.." his voice creaked, and he cleared his throat. "She hurt me. And like a fucking moron, I let you go because I was too scared to think that you wouldn't betray me, too."

His face still in my hands, I nodded. "She made you hard, and made you think the only way to survive was to not feel anything." Even with the way my heart was pounding and cracking apart for him, it felt good, like a triumph, to finally feel free to say these things to him.

He turned his head and pressed wet lips into the palm of my hand, shooting pleasure throughout my body. "I…I felt something, though..." he said haltingly. "With you."

"Seth…" I said, his name a sigh, not knowing if I wanted to get into the ins and outs of our relationship when we were both so emotionally wrecked.

"No, stop," he said abruptly, stepping back, pulling his face from my hands. "I never told you this, not then, and I guess I've hinted at it now, but…I loved you. I loved you more than I've ever loved anyone. And when I left I wanted to forget you, because I was too scared to stay and take a shot like a fucking man. And I thought it worked, but then…it all changed." He ran his hands over his hair, and wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand.

"I saw you everywhere," he said, "In everyone. And when my mother wrote me, it was like the push I'd been looking for."

He stepped forward again, and this time it was he who took my face in his hands, tilting my neck back gently, forcing me to look him full in the face. "I love you, Lydia. I've loved you since I was sixteen. Probably since the first time I met you and you refused to give 'the likes of me' your real name and basically told me to go to hell."

"Seth," I pleaded, "You don't even know me. I'm not that girl anymore." I felt so torn, so confused. Wasn't this what I had always wanted?

But what about Bourbon? What about the fact that I didn't think I even recognized this man?

"I know you're not," he said earnestly, giving me a light shake. "You're even fiercer, and smarter, and more level-headed. It's not just girls who follow you now, every single guy who came to Brooklyn the other night loves you so much they were willing to fight for your honor. That's what this new you does to people. They'd _kill_ for you, Lydia." His eyes raked my face. "And fuck if you're not even more beautiful than you were then."

I shut my eyes, unable to listen to the words I had waited so long to hear while simultaneously staring into that gorgeous, perfect face.

"Look at me," he ordered, his tone and words matching mine exactly. I did as commanded, and he pressed his lips to my forehead, pressing hard and inhaling at the same time. "I'm not asking for you to say anything. I know you've got some thing going on with Ben, and—"

"That's not—" I protested, but he cut me off.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Lydia. I never asked you to wait…Do you love him?" he asked suddenly, an edge to his voice.

"I don't know," I replied softly, miserably.

He nodded and let me go, stepping away. I felt his hands slip away like a physical loss, my body craving for him to come back.

"Please, Seth," I started, feeling a rush of déjà vu, knowing this was going to be a very familiar conversation, even if the names were reversed. "I don't know what I feel for Ben. I don't even know what I feel for you. I know I loved Spot, and I know I held onto him for a long time."

His brow crinkled. "You talk about me like I'm two people," he said, studying my face, perhaps for signs of senility.

"That's because you are!" I half-yelled. "You, Seth, are nothing like you used to be. You are _not_ Spot Conlon anymore. And I don't know how to feel about you, because you're so kind, and amazing, and Spot…Spot was complicated. He was arrogant, and he could be so cruel, but he tried to hard."

I looked up. "It's like…like Spot was trying to be you," I said, and I realized the truth of those words as they left my mouth, a feeling of pure bewilderment hitting me in the chest. "Oh my God," I breathed, and he stepped forward tentatively.

"What?" he asked; then again, "What, Lydia?"

I was staring at him as though I'd never seen him before—and really, I don't think I ever had. "I spent all that time wishing that you could be the man I knew you were capable of being. And now…here you are, exactly that man."

"So what does that mean?" he pressed, closing the gap between us so I could feel the heat from his body transferring to mine.

"I think it means I love you," I replied, still feeling like I had been trampled by a horse.

I didn't have a chance to take a breath before my face was back in his hands and my head was slanted back. My spine arched as he brought his lips to mine in a kiss that made me feel like I was spinning.

He pulled back and seemed to be preparing to kiss me again, or pick me up, or something else utterly romantic when I completely, and totally, wrecked it.

"Seth," I said, tensing away from him. He halted, panting. "I love you," I said, and the very words, spoken so openly, made me feel a bit giddy. "But I…" Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I love Ben, too," I said finally.

Spot deflated, his arms dropped, and his eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment before they cleared, hardened. "You can't have it both ways, Lydia," he said, his voice fairly shaking with anger.

"Oh, fuck," I breathed, and felt like falling to the ground in despair myself. "I know that!" I cried. "I know that! Everybody keeps saying that, and I keep telling myself that! But I don't. Know. What. To do." I put my hands to my head, feeling like I was flying apart. "It's like, when I'm with him, I can't see you. And when I'm with you, I can't see him. I can't think around either of you. I can't make sense of anything!"

I was crying now, feeling lost. Feeling like the worst possible person in the entire known world for hurting people, taking advantage of their feelings, with such abandon.

"Shit," Spot muttered, and then he had picked me up. He carried me to the couch and sat, cradling me. I tucked my arms to my chest and clenched my hands together, burying my face in his warm neck and sobbing. "I'm so sorry," I said, over and over, and felt like it had become my mantra.

After a few minutes, I had pretty much bawled myself dry, and I wiped at my eyes and nose before pulling away and sitting up on his lap. When he looked at me, I couldn't get a read on him.

"I'm sorry too," he said finally, and I hated the way his jaw was once again tight. "This was too much. I said we wouldn't talk about this now, and I should've kept my damn mouth shut."

"Please, Seth," I pleaded. "Say you'll still come tomorrow. For Christmas Eve."

He looked at me sideways. "Won't that be stupid? You, me, and Ben all together?"

I shook my head. "I need that," I said, knowing it was true. "I can't think when I'm with only one of you. Maybe with both of you…"

"So, what? This is a contest now?" he asked, his voice rising. He tried to sit up, almost dislodging me, but I clung to him and pushed him back.

"It's not a fucking contest, Seth. I don't think I'm such a prize that you have to _win_ me. It's not like that."

He nodded, and agreed to come, and somehow, in a blur, I managed to get my things and head to the door. It took some convincing, but I managed to get Spot to stay at the tenement, assuring him I could get home on my own just fine.

He walked me to the trolley platform, and when it came, and I began to step on, he yanked me back and kissed me so fiercely I thought I was going to pass out in the gutter.

"This _is_ a contest, Lydia," he whispered in my ear. "And I plan to win."

.

AN: Le sigh. Ohhhh, Spot. How I missed you. Now, I know that Seth Conlon is very unlike Spot Conlon, but bare with me ladies. I'm trying to work it out and explain the changes as adequately as possible. I also think the fact that he still uses foul language helps. :D And Lydia, or course, has a mouth on her, too. They basically have my vocabulary. ;)


	8. Shhh, just a little taste

There WILL be a new chapter up soon. I am writing it now. However, to hold you over, I have FOUND my real-life men who will be our Bourbon and Spot. :D

Bourbon is brought to you by Mario Lekkos, Greek model. There are many, many gorgeous photos of him out there, but THIS one made my heart skip a beat because it is HIM—Bourbon, I mean.

Spot is an anonymous man who is nonetheless beautiful and EVERYthing I had in mind. Yes, I know Gabe Damon exists, and I love him…however, grown-up Gabe Damon in not in line with my version of grown-up Spot, as much as I adore him.

The links are ON my profile. :D Along with a link in my son's name (Conlon, obviously. -wink-) because uhm...you have to look at him, too.


	9. Chapter 7

I woke up the next morning with a pounding heart and a briefly confused mind. What was making my insides twist with nervousness and my heartbeat so forceful? And then I remembered: Both men. Both of the men I loved, in the same house. For an entire day.

I slapped my palms onto my face, exhaling heavily. What seemed like moments later, I was festively dressed in an emerald green silk blouse with a high ruffled collar and a tie that I knotted into a bow. My skirt was a deep, vibrant gold wool, and I fastened it with a white leather belt with gold hardware, and slipped on tan, tall boots with a high heel.

Feeling a little more sophisticated than usual, I twisted my hair into what could have possibly passed for a French twist, securing it into itself instead of using pins. I knew I would be redoing it all day long, but I knew how both men watched me when I ran my hands through my hair and twisted it around, and I was vain and selfish enough to take advantage of that.

I "put my face on," as it were, and was in the kitchen making an honest attempt at flapjacks and scrambled eggs when Sprint came in and rescued me, shooing me into the attic with Panic to start bringing down the decorations.

We didn't wake the girls, but they all knew the day was finally here, so most of them woke up before eight-thirty on their own, and came, shrieking, down the stairs and into the front room, where we would assemble the tree.

As if one cue, Bourbon, Water, and Mush burst through the door bearing a huge evergreen in their six arms, all three red-faced and straining. The girls quickly unearthed the tree stand and Oklahoma placed it on the floor in front of the bay window, where it would feature prominently from the street.

With the girls' shouted and probably not entirely helpful guidance, the boys managed to get the tree into the stand and secured. They all stepped back as one and each stood in identical poses, hands on their hips, backs slightly arched, much like I imagine men have surveyed their kills for centuries. Okay, so this kill was a tree, and they had gotten it from a lot, but still.

Immensely satisfied with themselves, Water and Bourbon slapped each other and Mush on the back. Mush crossed to Skittles and greeted her with a hug and a nuzzle on the neck. Water, grinning wickedly at Sprint, asked, "You need one of those too?" and she laughed, rolling her eyes. He turned a jokingly hopeful face to me. " Lydia ? Come on, Gin won't be here for hours. I need a lady friend until then."

I snorted, certainly nowhere near being a lady. "You're hopeless," I said, but launched myself onto him, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing, glad that this relationship, at least, was uncomplicated, and hugs and kisses on the cheek would not be misinterpreted. When we released each other, everyone was laughing, and all the newsgirls were begging for Water's hugs. He's always been a favorite amongst the girls, with his light, golden good looks and good-natured sense of humor.

While Water was squawking and yelling in protest and the girls were attacking him, Bourbon came to my side, putting his hand on my elbow and leading me into the kitchen, where the finished, fragrant breakfast was waiting.

"So how'd it go yesterday?" he asked without preamble, and I didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about.

"It was…" I struggled for the right words. Not because I didn't know what I had felt, but because I was unsure just how much to share with him. Not the kisses, certainly. But what about the crying? I wasn't worried about his reaction to my comforting Seth, as Bourbon, who was so good, would expect no less. But would telling him be a betrayal of Seth?

Yes, I decided. Telling even Bourbon, who was, for all intents and purposes, Seth's and my shared best friend (although both relationships had their severe complications at the moment) would be throwing away all the trust Seth had shown me the night before.

Finally, I settled for telling Bourbon the highlights: the squalor, the cleaning, the pickup of Seth's mother (Bourbon, for his part, looked outraged on Seth's behalf) and made it seem like I had left immediately upon arriving back at the tenement.

"So did you…" He cleared his throat. "Is he…is he different?"

"Yes," was all I said, and Bourbon seemed to take that at face value. "He's coming," I added, suddenly remembering that I had, as of yet, told no one of Seth's impending arrival. "Here, I mean. Today." Full of grace and eloquence, as usual.

Bourbon looked a little bewildered, but merely nodded. Just in time, too, because Panic stuck her head in to tell us that Seth had arrived. She shot me a look of reproach as she retreated, annoyed, I knew, that I had gone straight to bed the night before and told her nothing. I knew she hated going into interactions with people not knowing if she was supposed to be nice or mean, happy or angry. I should have told her everything, should have given her every detail (somehow, Panic, who was so close to my heart I felt as though we were more extensions of one another than separate people, did not feel like a person I would betray Seth by confiding in.), but I was too tired, too overwhelmed, and simply vanished into my room after soaking in the tub for a half hour to scrub the grime and emotion of the day from my body.

I turned to go, but Bourbon caught my hand. " Lydia ," he murmured, and I turned to him. He pulled me forward by the hand and placed a big, warm hand on my hip as he lowered his mouth onto mine. My stomach jumped and I had the feeling this entire day would be spent with me feeling that blasted pelvic region of mine hum and vibrate with longing.

We broke away, and my eyes fluttered open. His lips were so full, such a beautiful pinkish-tan, and it amazed me, not for the first time, that the two men I found most gorgeous and desirable in the world were so different.

Bourbon was of Greek descent, the youngest son of the first generation of American-borns in his family, and given the Westernized version of the name Beniamín, the traditional Greek spelling of the Hebrew Binyamin, Jacob's youngest son. His oldest brother had died in childhood, along with his parents, of cholera, and Bourbon and his older brother, Alex, short for Aleksander, the middle child, had barely escaped the home with their lives. They had both grown up with the Brooklyn newsies. Alex, who was four years older than Bourbon and the rest of us, had been the leader two terms before Seth, and had never quite gotten over being disappointed that Bourbon had not followed in his footsteps. He had moved as soon as he had left the newsies, and now lived in a tiny town in Massachusetts , where he was, of all things, a schoolteacher.

Bourbon's skin was a golden, deep tan, just barely touched with a brush of olive. His brows were thick, arching, and extended past the corners of his chocolate eyes, which were ringed with gold, and his eyelashes, like mine, were impossibly long, dark, and thick. His nose was aristocratic and long over those thick, full lips, the top lip a touch on the thin side, when compared to the bottom. His curly hair was an inky black that glowed blue in the sunlight and was short in the back and on the sides, but hung a bit long in the front, forever flopping onto his forehead. The bones in his face were strong and angular

As we exited the kitchen, the first thing I saw was Seth, standing by the tree while the girls, starstruck by the presence of THE Spot Conlon, who had grown, over the last three years, into something truly magnificent, showed off all the decorations we had yet to put up.

Seth was light where Bourbon was dark. Lightly tanned skin with pink cheeks and dusty-pink lips. Straight, thick, short brows, and vivid blue-green eyes with thick, long, golden eyelashes. His hair was cut close to his head, and was a dark shining blonde. His bone structure was just slightly less sharp than Bourbon's, but his jaw cut a no less striking line along his neck.

Bourbon looked like a shining example of what a man should be—elegant but masculine. Sexy. Sure. Seth was no less beautiful, but there was just a touch of the wrong side of the tracks in his face, a hint of danger in the arrogance, the implication that his fire may be catching.

Well, anyway, they were both so scrumptious I wanted to take them both to my bedroom, basically. Together. At the same time. Where we would fall into my bed and—

No. Okay, yeah, no.

"Hey," Seth said, relief clearly evident in his tone as he turned and caught sight of me. His eyes flicked over Bourbon, and I saw the internal struggle in his bright eyes, the mingling of a feeling of competition and the memory of when they had been best friends, confidants, brothers.

I felt even more terrible than I already had. Who was I, after all, to pit them against one another, even unwillingly? But I knew now that no matter what I did, even if I told them both to leave me alone, they would continue to try, keep on loving me, and their relationship would be forever changed no matter what I did.

"Hey," I replied, feeling both ecstatic to see him and horrendously nervous at the same time.

Seth crossed the room to grasp my elbow and kiss me on the cheek, his shoulder brushing Bourbon's chest as he stood next to me. Bourbon didn't miss this, of course, and when I glanced his way, his lips were stiff, his eyes staring forward. I made the decision then and there that, if I could stop calling Seth "Spot," even in my head, I would do it for Bourbon—Ben. It seemed to even the field in some inexplicable way, to bring them into the same light.

The girls, of course, noticed nothing as Oklahoma divided them into teams and zones, giving each group an area to decorate, divvying out decorations. Her straight, light brown hair was pulled back and under a handkerchief, and she looked younger than her almost-eighteen years. I wondered, with a pang, where she would go when it was her time, and if we'd ever see her again.

But of course we would, I told myself firmly, if only for Christmas. Everyone came back for Christmas, I reminded myself, as if on cue, the door opened and Charles "Racetrack" Higgins strolled through, his arms heavy with brightly wrapped gifts.

"Hello, Queens !" he shouted, like the racing announcer he was. The guys quickly divested him of his gifts, setting them next to the tree. I practically ran to him and he wrapped his arms around me, sighing happily. Race was still a New York resident, but what with his announcing gig at the track and his nightly poker games, he was rarely at the house more often than once every few months. We hadn't seen him since September.

"What have we here?" he murmured in my ear. "Is that a Conlon I see?" I pulled away and fixed him with what I hoped was a quelling look, although he just grinned, so, accurate or not, it certainly hadn't been affective.

"Be nice," I warned, stepping away to let the other girls welcome him.

"I'm always nice," he replied over Panic's shoulder as she too hugged him tightly.

Moments later, Race was crossing the room to see Seth for himself. "Spot Conlon," he said carefully, "Back from the dead." His tone was mild, but it had accusing undertones, and everyone in the room, except the oblivious newsgirls, tensed.

But Seth merely cocked a smile at Race, who looked him over in that keen, measured way he has. "Racetrack Higgins," he countered, "Still short."

Race looked taken aback for a moment, and then let out a great guffaw, slapping Seth on the back and shaking his hand. "Good to see you, man," he said finally, still smiling.

"You too, Race," Seth said, nodding. Then he turned his face to me. "How many times you think we'll hear that same comment today?"

I grinned, feeling the apprehension in my chest ease slightly. "Or something similar?" I pretended to mull it over. "I'm gonna go ahead and just warn you to expect it from everyone."

After that, everything was a blur of old friends arriving hours early, and decorating, eating, and laughing. I had forgotten how well Seth—or, Spot, really—could ingratiate himself into a group, forgotten for a while how dynamic he was, and how he drew in people that weren't just _me_. There was awkwardness, sure, but mostly, people seemed to accept his presence simply because I did.

Brandy, Water's best friend, who had married and moved to Connecticut soon after leaving the newsies, arrived in early-afternoon, to many exclamations at his pretty blonde wife's protruding stomach. So it started, I supposed, eyeing her stomach with a mixture of fear and awe. We were all grown up now, and it was time for us to have babies of our own. Somehow, though, I didn't feel like an adult, and looking at the wide-eyed expression on Panic's face as she stared, fixated, at Miranda's stomach, I didn't think she did either.

She caught my eye and grimaced in mock horror, and I laughed, feeling the same way. Well, almost. The sight of that stomach, distended with child, gave me a small but insistent feeling of longing, one that I pushed away as firmly as I could. I couldn't even choose between two men. I couldn't have a baby.

I was grateful for all the distractions old friends, for Jack arriving from Montana , his hair long, his cowboy boots now real. Santa Fe had never worked out, but he claimed to like the air better in Montana , though how he could claim that having never set foot in New Mexico , I couldn't rightly say—but that was Jack for you. I gave hugs and greetings to Specs, Bumlets, and Boots, who had all arrived from Boston where they lived and worked together.

Soon, it was two in the afternoon, and though officially, people weren't supposed to arrive until six, the house was fairly crawling with former Brooklyn, Manhattan , and Queens newsies. A quick headcount told me that we had, in total, fourteen extra people in the house, not counting Seth and those of us who lived here—or practically did.

Bumlets, Specs, Boots, Jack, Race, Swifty, Snoddy, Pie Eater, and of course, Blink, Mush, Skittery, and Dave, who had brought along the now-thirteen year-old Les.

Brooklyn's Alt, Shifty, Zip (the old runner) Brandy, Water, and of course, Spot Conlon and Bourbon—or, as I was determined to think of them, Seth and Ben.

Queens' Lady, Angel, Mugger, Sprint, Panic, and of course, me. We girls had stuck together, and since a lot of the girls we had known when we were newsies were still in the lodging house, there wasn't really any reuniting going on from our house.

Just as I was lamenting the fact that Seth and Ben had been so busy with old friends and manual labor that I had not gotten the chance to spend any real time with either of them, Ben appeared at my side, leaning down to ask me if I wanted to walk to get some extra bread for dinner. Sprint, I knew, was slaving away in the kitchen with Miranda and some other, more domestically gifted women than me. "They need more," he explained, "A lot more people are here than they thought," he said, and his eyes flicked over to the stairs, where Seth was hammering in a nail to hang one of the many wreaths.

I bit my lip to keep from retorting that Seth alone could not possibly be the reason we were going to be short on food, and instead nodded my assent silently. Ben collected my coat from the hall closet, and, not speaking, we exited the front door.

"We might have to walk a ways," I said, feeling a bit shy and awkward in spite of myself, "A lot of venders don't show up today. Our best bet will just be the bakery seven blocks up."

"I'm alright with that," he replied, and so we walked, headed lowered against the cold.

We'd only gone two blocks when he stopped suddenly, seizing my forearm to halt me, too.

"Do I have a chance here, Lydia ?" he asked without preamble, without even easing me into it, and I felt my heart jump with anxiety.

"What?" I said dumbly, knowing full well what he was talking about, but desperate to buy myself some time.

"Don't do that, Lydia," he sighed, and stepped closer to me on the largely vacant street. "Please. Tell me if I'm wasting my time."

I looked up into his face, and was, as always, astounded by him. "I told Seth last night that this was not a contest," I said slowly, "And I'm telling you the same thing."

Ben shook his head and narrowed his eyes. "And what did he say to that?" he asked dryly, and I swallowed uncomfortably.

"He said it was," I answered, then hesitated before finishing, "And that he was going to win."

Ben surprised me by exhaling in what could have been a laugh. "Of course he did." He took my cold, gloveless hands in his, which were still somehow warm. "Don't you see Lydia? No matter what you say or do now, it's too late. It's already started. We both want you, and we're both gonna try to win you."

"God!" I cried, shaking his hands off mine. "I hate that! It makes me sound horrible! Like this terrible person pitting you against each other for my amusement."

"I know you're not amused," Ben said insistently, and took my hands in his again, not relenting when I tried to pull them away. "I can see in your face how bad you feel about all this. But that doesn't change anything. You can't make up your mind and we're both gonna do whatever it takes to make you. I mean, you have to pick eventually, right?"

"Jesus," I murmured, bowing my head. "So what do you intend to do?" I asked, peeking up at him, suddenly curious.

He shook his head and pursed his lips briefly, staring out over my head. "What I did before, playing careful and taking it slow, it didn't work. You didn't forget him. And now that he's back it'll be even harder." He looked down at me suddenly, his eyes burning into mine. "What did I do that made you forget him altogether? Even if it was just for a second."

I considered this, wondering, now that I was committed to this "game" for better or (most likely) worse, if this could be construed as cheating, giving Ben tips.

I answered anyway. "When you cried that day, all I thought about was how terrible I felt, and how much I wanted to make it go away. I felt like a monster for making you feel like that, and all I wanted to do was make it better for you." I paused, remembering how it had felt, seeing him broken, seeing that this man, who had remained largely silent and aloof, as though he didn't mind one way or the other where our relationship did or didn't go, had really, truly, been heartbroken to hear that I was ending it.

"Seeing you like that, it was seared into my brain. I couldn't forget it. And when Seth came back, I wanted you to comfort me, because when you were sad, even though it was my fault, I wanted to comfort you." I thought for a moment. "And when you were mad at me the night he came back, I thought, 'Where did he get all that fire?' You've never been mean to me. I've seen you annoyed with me, but never so angry you couldn't help but be an ass. It made me see that there's so much more to you than just being so good and kind all the time."

Ben raised a long eyebrow. "You don't like it when I'm nice?"

"I don't like it when _anyone_ is nice all the time," I replied, rolling my eyes. "It's just not natural." I looked earnestly into his face. "Just because you love me doesn't mean I don't still piss you off. And when I do, you should act like it—especially when I so clearly deserve it." I rushed on before he could respond, though he had already opened his mouth to do so.

"And the other day, when we…" I made a vague gesture to indicate our near-tryst in my bedroom, "The entire world was empty at that moment. Except for you."

"So you don't want me to act like I _think_ you want me to. You just want me to act on whatever I'm feeling," he said haltingly, looking confused. Men; seriously.

"_Yes_," I stressed, clutching his hands. "I knew how you felt about me, Ben, because you told me, but before that night, when I told you it was over, and you cried, I never _saw_ how you felt. You tried so hard to do it the right way, and be proper. And that's sweet, but a woman like me isn't with a man because he follows all the rules."

"A woman like you?" he repeated, looking me up and down, as though searching for a sign on my forehead or clothes that would indicate exactly what kind of woman I was.

"I'm not a lady, Ben," I said flatly. "I swear like a sailor on leave, I run around like a crazy person; I don't care about what society says I should and shouldn't do with a man in public."

"You what?" he asked, his breath rushing out in what could have been an incredulous laugh.

"If I took it into my head to kiss you right now, I would, and if people didn't like it, or it wasn't proper, then that would just be too damn bad."

He moved closer to me on the empty sidewalk and placed his hands on my hips, lining up his pelvis with mine and pressing forward. I felt my insides shrivel and then blossom with shock and excitement. I glanced around. A middle-aged woman with a stern face turned the corner and walked by us, staring daggers in our direction. I swear, I could feel her prayers to God asking him to smite us for our lusty sins rush by me and into the sky, and despite my proclamation that I didn't give a rat's ass about "society," I couldn't meet her eye, and felt my face flush.

But Ben didn't move, kept his hips pressed to mine, and save for a sideways glance in her direction, his eyes didn't leave my face.

When the woman had passed and the strain left the air, I looked up at him. "What was that?" I asked, tilting my head.

He shrugged and tightened his long fingers on my hips, sending a shiver through my body. "It's what I wanna do every time I'm with you, but never did, 'cause it wasn't…"

"Proper?" I supplied, smirking. He grinned, and before I knew it, his still-smiling mouth was pressed into mine, and my breasts were pressed into his sternum. He pulled me ever closer, grinding our pelvises together, and I could feel the beginnings of his want pushing between my legs, which, trust me, only made me feel like panting with desire.

I inhaled sharply when his tongue touched mine, and somehow, without any conscious thought, I placed my hands on his ribs, just under his arms, and pulled him closer, though at that point, it was nearly an impossibility.

Finally, with a groan, he backed away, and I felt his touch melt from my body. I looked up at him, my vision slightly blurry, and in my peripheral vision, I could just make out a teenage boy, grinning, standing stock-still on the opposite sidewalk, his arms loaded with bread from the very bakery we were supposed to be visiting.

"We're making a scene," I murmured, trying and failing not to look immensely pleased.

Bourbon grinned shiftily and said nothing, merely took my hand in his and led me to the bakery.

Before we reached the house on our return, I stopped him, just out of sight of the picture window.

"Why do you love me?" I asked, feeling stupid but needing to know. "I mean, you could have anyone. Literally any woman. I know at least two in this neighborhood who would drop trow so fast and so hard there'd be a hole in the ground halfway to China . So why me?"

Ben looked flummoxed. "First off," he began, "Who are these women?" He laughed when I struck out at him, thwacking him in the shoulder. "Second, what the hell do you mean 'why you?' Do you not see the affect you have?"

I was immediately reminded of Seth, the night before, saying something along those same lines, about my affect on people. I scrunched my face, trying to remember what he had said, but Ben was two steps ahead of me.

"You make people want to be around you. You're unpredictable and fierce and passionate. You're not always nice, but that's only because you don't have patience for stupidity. You're witty, and funny." He studied my face for a moment. "You're beautiful."

Now, every girl loves to hear that, and I wasn't so coy that I couldn't admit freely that I was attractive on my own and even beautiful, given the right cosmetic help. But there were other women more beautiful than me—Lady, Angel, Mugger, to name a few. I wasn't so dense that I didn't see how gorgeous they all were.

"I'm not that beautiful," I said grumpily, and Ben smiled again.

"But you are, Lydia . Don't try to say you're not. And besides, that's only part of the reason I love you. All those other things—I wouldn't love you if you weren't all that, too." He stopped talking and looked away, biting his lips as though trying to decide something. "I know you said you don't know how you feel about me," he began, his voice carrying the slightest tremor. "But you also said you love me. So why?"

Oh, Jesus. Why did I have to ask my own idiotic question and open myself up to this? I took a deep breath, feeling my heart pounding around wildly in my chest as though trying to get free. "You're a good person. You help people. You like to see other people happy. You like to see _me_ happy, and I haven't been for a long time. But when I'm with you, you make me smile, and you make me laugh. And I trust you," I added, feeling that this was not an adequate description for how safe and cherished I felt with him. "I know I can act however I want around you and you won't judge me. I can say anything to you and it won't matter if it's right or wrong, or mean or nice. You just love me anyway."

"Anything else?" he asked softly, moving forward to take my face in his hand.

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand soak into my cold skin. "You're warm," I whispered, smiling. I opened my eyes. "You're so beautiful it hurts me to look at you."

Ben smiled, a little sadly. "Then why isn't all that enough?"

My heart fell. Why _wasn't_ that enough? Hadn't I just described the perfect man? Gorgeous, kind, one who made me feel safe and special, and perfect even though I so obviously wasn't. Isn't that what everyone wants?

"I don't know that it isn't," I replied, continuing my thought out loud. "Before Seth came back, you were so guarded, even when you were trying to—what was it you said?—'court' me. You didn't make me feel desperate to have you, because you didn't seem like you were all that desperate to have me."

He scoffed, shaking his dark head. "Well, I was," he said, not looking at me, and instead fixing his eyes on the steps of the house, where, from his vantage point, he could see the front door when I could not.

"Well, you didn't act like it."

He looked back at me, his eyes intense, boring into mine. "I guess not," he said, closing the gap between us and taking my face in both his hands. "But I am now."

He kissed me quickly, hard, and pulled away, dropping his hands. "I think someone wants to talk to you," he said, his tone impartial, and walked away. As I followed his progress to the house, I finally saw what Ben had seen moments before: Seth, standing at the top of the stairs, watching.

.

AN: YES, we have had a title change! Sorry. The song I had chosen as the summary and title was no longer cohesive with the shape this story has taken. Additional lyrics are now available in the prologue, and, if I can swing it, the entire song may eventually be in the story itself.

There are links to PICTURES of all main OCs on my profile. And yes, Lydia's picture is a picture of me, and here's why: When I started the prequel to this story, I was 14, and when I chose my cousin to "play" Panic, and described her, she then wrote the description of Gleam/Lydia as though she were me. So I just kept going along with that, basically. It's much easier. I mean, I know how to describe myself. Is it arrogant? Yes. Does it sound like a rookie, Mary-Sue type move? Yes. I don't care, LOL.

There is also a link to a super-cute picture of MY Conlon on there, too.

Also! I have chosen to do this story as my NaNoWriMo this year. I am NOT using what has been written previously toward my 50,000 word-count, though, so it's NOT cheating! :D Anyway, this is good news, since last year, I was working on "Caricature" when NaNo came around, and the entire month was spent ignoring it to focus on that. So expect UPDATES regularly, as I will be writing as much as possible as quickly as possible this entire month.

Review! Now!


	10. Chapter 8

Oh, sweet baby Jesus. He had seen it. He had seen the whole thing. And Ben had known. I was at once appalled at Ben's behavior and impressed by it. Playing things dirty like this: I wouldn't have thought he had it in him, to be completely honest.

Ben slipped past Seth and into the house, Seth never even sparing him a glance. I felt a pang as I saw, once again, their friendship cracking apart, all because of me.

Seth lifted his chin and walked slowly down the steps. The bread Ben and I had bought lay on the pavement in its bags, and Seth approached, bent, scooped up the bread, and carried it back inside without saying a word or meeting my eye once.

I stood there on the sidewalk feeling frozen, not just from cold but from the utter inability to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to run away rather than face them together in the same room. Another part wanted to continue this conversation with Ben. Still another part of me felt as though maybe some attention to Seth was in order.

After all, wasn't everyone telling me I needed to get to know him, spend time with him in order to make a choice?

You know, this all sounds like so much damn fun in theory. Two astoundingly gorgeous men, fighting over you? I won't pretend it wasn't flattering, or that my self-esteem wasn't rising by the second.

But more than that, it hurt. While I was making one happy, the other was hurting. I felt knotted up inside all the time, and my brain and heart couldn't seem to stop fighting long enough to form a coherent plan.

I was doing this all wrong, I knew. Making a mess of everything like I always seemed to. If I had any sense, any compassion, I would have bolted, just left and never came back.

But.

There it was, that one tiny word that changes everything.

But: Different parts of me wanted each of them. It wasn't just that they were battling each other for me, but that I was battling myself for them.

Having them together was not helping in the slightest, mostly because they refused, without so much as a word, to be in the same room, let alone the same conversation. How would I ever be able to compare and contrast the two of them if I never saw them side by side, being themselves?

It occurred to me then that a crowd was perhaps not the best place to ask them to let go and be who they were. Seth was surrounded by people who knew him as Spot Conlon, and he was, flawlessly, acting accordingly. The smirk and swagger I hadn't seen at full wattage since he'd returned had both been back in full force today.

Ben, well, he was Ben. The old Ben, the one whom I loved and cherished but didn't feel any passion for. This new man, the one who didn't hide his feelings and desires behind a mask of propriety, this man made me feel…alive.

The door slammed, and Seth came trotting down the steps, holding a covered dish in his hands. He walked briskly to me, and made a "come along" gesture with a tilt of his head. I followed without thinking, without questioning a thing, and it wasn't until I saw that we were approaching the trolley station that I grabbed his shoulder.

"Where are we going?" I asked, and didn't pretend that there was any question of my not coming. Of course I would come.

"I need to check on my mother," he said, still refusing to look at me. "Make sure she eats and everything. You're coming; we'll be back in time for dinner." And with that, he walked on.

Well, well, well. Race had been right. Spot Conlon had come back from the dead. Order first, ask permission and advice later. It seemed that the Spot Conlon I had known was still somewhere deep inside Seth.

"My god, you're bossy," I murmured as we walked to the platform.

He didn't answer, merely stepped onto the trolley. He didn't speak to me while we rode to Brooklyn, and I contented myself with staring at him unabashedly, something he pointedly ignored, though a flush of red worked its way up his neck and into his cheeks.

He was dressed for church, in black pants, a blood red shirt, and black vest with an overcoat. He had stripped down to his thin, worn, light brown undershirt while he had worked, but was now back in order. The red in the shirt made his face light up, made his eyes even more vibrant in his face.

We were in the tenement building, hovering at the closed door the apartment, when he spoke to me again, setting the dish on the floor. "I'm not gonna play games with you if you don't play them me, okay?" his voice was hard, and I merely nodded, crossing my arms over my chest, already feeling defensive.

"I saw you and Ben. And he saw me. And I'm fucking pissed." He held up a hand as I opened my mouth. "I know I can't be. I know I don't have a right to be. I was the moron who said it was a contest in the first place. But…" he ran a hand over his hair, then laid his palm flat against the door to his mother's apartment, leaning his weight into it and looking at the floor. "Seeing him kiss you, it made me…" he trailed off and looked up, and there was anger in his eyes, yes, but there was also pain, and that was so much worse.

Do you see? Do you see now how horrible this all was? _This_ was the person I was. This was what I had done. And I know, I know: I didn't ask Ben to love me. I didn't ask Seth to come back. But I was participating in this, wasn't I? I was kissing them both, spending time with them both.

Neither one of them should love me, I decided. They should both hate me. God knows I certainly hated myself.

"Seth, please," I started, but he shook his head.

"Don't," he said to the floor. "Don't tell me you're sorry. I already know you are. I know you're thinking what a terrible, piece of shit person you are." I stiffened, not because I was insulted, but that it was eerie, really, how well he knew me. "It's not your fault. We forced you into this."

"That doesn't mean it's not awful," I said softly, and he nodded.

"I guess part of me thought this would be a game," he said, his voice creaking slightly. "But it's not. This is not fun."

I felt fear creep up from my stomach and settle in my sternum. "So are you saying you're done?" I asked.

"Do you want me to be?" he countered, looking up, his eyes searing into me, pinning me to the spot.

I didn't think before I spoke. "No."

He exhaled, as though in relief, and swooped forward so quickly I had no time to brace myself before he grabbed me about the waist and picked me up. My legs went around him automatically, and I thought he would kiss me.

But he didn't. He squeezed me tightly, his face turned sideways and tucked under my chin. My arms went 'round his neck, and I gripped him, both arms and legs straining.

When he set me down, I laughed shakily, feeling close to tears and weak with relief. "Again with all the hugging," I said, in a lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"Well, before it was mostly yelling and sex," he said, not cracking a smile. "I don't want it to be like that this time."

This time. Could we really have a do-over? Could we really, truly, have a second chance to make this right? Or was it too late?

Seth unlocked the door and held it open for me, picking up the dish. I stepped inside and was immediately assailed with the scent of human waste. Seth flinched, but didn't back down as he passed the dish to me and moved toward the curtain hiding his mother. He knocked on the wall, and when a grunt answered, slipped behind it. He emerged moments later holding a chamber pot, his face deliberately pointed away.

I looked absolutely anywhere but at the thing his hands as he walked past me and into the hall. I heard a splash, and a flush, both of which made me shudder in revulsion, followed by running water, and then Seth and the newly-cleaned pot returned. Seth brought the chamber pot back to his mother while I went to the kitchen to deposit the dish and wrench open a window, wishing mightily for a candle scented with oils, which I had seen and lusted after in a shop the previous week before finally caving in and buying one, which was currently making the lodging house smell like cinnamon, even when no one was baking.

Seth joined me in the kitchen and washed his hands with a bar of Lava soap, scrubbing at them for longer than could have possibly been necessary.

"So how is she?" I asked when he was drying his hands on a rag.

"I don't know," he said, his eyes on the now still curtain blocking her from view. "She hasn't eaten, I don't think, and she says she's not hungry."

A large—okay, overwhelming—part of me wanted to let her starve, but instead, I turned and uncovered the dish. Mashed potatoes with gravy, a small sampling of turkey, and, in a separate container inside, a soft, still-warm berry cobbler.

I pulled a clean plate from the cabinet and put a small amount of everything on it, then, ignoring Seth's outstretched hand, took it to his mother myself.

She looked mildly surprised when she saw me there, but said nothing as I set the plate and silverware on the tray already over her lap.

"Do you need anything to drink?" I asked in my most polite voice.

She shook her head, her eyes drilling me, suspicious. I refused to be rattled.

"Well, Merry Christmas then," I said, hopefully pleasantly, although I fear some sarcasm may have slipped into my tone, and walked out.

"What was that?" Seth asked when I stepped back into the kitchen. He was leaning against the counter, arms folded lightly over his chest, watching me with the same suspicious look his mother had given me.

"Every time you interact with her, you come out of it looking like someone ran you over with a horse," I said matter-of-factly, hoisting myself up on the table, a mere foot away from him.

He looked gravely insulted. "I do not," he insisted, tightening his stance, tensing.

I pressed my hands into the table on either side of my legs and crossed one knee over the other. "Yes, actually, you do," I replied mildly, acting like I didn't care, like it was merely a casual observation, when in truth, the look on his face every time she actually deigned to speak to him made me want to scream.

He shook his head as though too irritated to respond, and stayed silent. He looked around the sparse apartment for a moment, then said, so quietly I almost missed it, "She woke up after you left last night."

I jerked my head up to look his full in the face. "She what?" I demanded, wondering if she_ had_ heard what had happened, and if so, what her reaction, if any, had been.

"She woke up," he repeated, his voice still almost incoherently soft. "She had me come into her room, and she told me that since she was dying, she wanted to tell me about my father."

My eyebrows shot up, all worry and/or excitement about her having heard me calling her a "fucking bitch" vanishing to be replaced by morbid curiosity. "What about him?" I asked. "Did you know him?"

I myself had only known my father briefly, before he had taken off into nowhere, never to be heard from again. I can only assume my mother didn't know where he was. I know for certain that she never went after him. And she had definitely never looked at me with hatred because he had betrayed her.

"No," Spot replied, looking somewhere in the vicinity of the table legs. "I never even met him. Once, when she was drunk, and I was nine, she told me he had raped her in an alley. She said that's why she hated me." He was still speaking calmly, quietly, and my gasp of horror was even more noticeable in the silent room.

"She _said_ that to you?" I asked, aghast, my head swiveling automatically toward the curtain, as if it held some sort of answer as to the insanity of a woman who would say that to a little boy. _Nine_ years old?

"It wasn't true," he said flatly. "About the rape, I mean. The hating me part was definitely true," he added, and his voice wavered before he cleared his throat to continue. "He was rich. He was engaged. She met him at some restaurant where she was working, and they had sex. She wound up pregnant and tracked him down, but he wouldn't speak to her. And she got me."

As I digested this, it occurred to me that Seth could, somewhere out there, have siblings, a family, who didn't even know he existed. I wondered, in a burst of lateral thinking, what it would feel like if I didn't know he existed, either.

"I can't imagine not knowing you," I said, mostly by accident. He looked up, his brow creased in confusion, "Heh?" practically written on his forehead. "I just mean," I added, trying to make sense of my thoughts, "That your father doesn't even know you exist. I just…thinking of not even knowing you were in the world makes me feel…" I struggled to find a word less dramatic than _bereft_ or _devastated_, which were the first to come to mind, and settled on, "Lonely."

He studied me, as though searching for truth in my face. "After everything that's happened, you really don't think you'd be better off without ever knowing me?" He straightened and closed the gap between us. I uncrossed my legs and he pressed himself against my knees. "You wouldn't even miss me. You just…wouldn't know."

"I would know," I whispered, and just the thought, the mention of him not having been a part of my life, a part of me, made me feel panicked, made my eyes burn. I cleared my throat and looked down before I did something irrevocably stupid, like cry. "So what else did she say?" I asked, my voice tight.

"That she should have 'done something' about me when she first found out," he said, and though his voice was steady, a look at his face told me his mother had, once again, for the umpteenth time, managed to break his heart.

"Oh, Seth," I breathed, and put my hands on his wrists, pulling him closer. I could feel his pulse in my hands, quick and frantic. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged, but I could see, in the way his entire body was on edge, his face stony, that he was about five seconds away from melting down again. I didn't think the old, fragile furniture in this place could take another beating.

"Why on _earth_ would she decide she needed to tell you that?" I asked, kneading his arms with my hands, my voice accusing. I was ready to go in there and spit on her.

"I don't know," he said, his voice wavering on the last word. "She hates me, and I don't know why." He shook his head, clenching his teeth together, and I immediately stood, still holding his wrists, and turned around, switching places with him. He sat on the edge of the table, his arms held up by my hands, but otherwise slumped, head hanging. I slid my hands up his arms, across his shoulders, to grasp the sides of his neck.

Anger, outrage, and thoughts of murder rose in my chest, and I dropped my hands and stalked across the floor and into his mother's room before he could even look up. By the time he had jumped up to follow me, I was standing before her in the bed, positively trembling with fury.

"Mrs." Conlon, from her bed, looked up at me impassively, as though I were a mildly irritating gnat that wouldn't leave.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" I spat, and she jerked back as though I had struck her, though I was a good three feet away and couldn't if I had wanted to, not without leaping on her, which actually, come to think of it, didn't sound half bad.

"Lydia, _don't_," Seth said from behind me, and tried to grab my wrist. I shook him off.

"_No_!" I cried, turning halfway around to look at him. "No, Seth." He didn't say anything, just stared at me, and I turned back to his mother. "How _dare_ you?" I said loudly, my voice harsh, biting. "He never did anything to you. He was supposed to be your baby. Why do you hate him so much?"

She looked completely bored by my outburst. "He was a terrible baby, always crying. And when he got older, he was always runnin', always breakin' things, never listening."

"Always interrupting your boozing?" I retorted, and I heard Seth groan from behind me.

"Lydia, enough," he said, and put his hands on my shoulders.

"No," I repeated, softer now, my voice low, cutting, as I addressed his mother again. "I know you're in pain, and I know you're dying. But that doesn't excuse what you did to him," I told her, and Seth's hands clenched on my shoulders, whether to support himself against collapse or in warning, I wasn't sure. I barreled on. "He deserved better than you."

Now she looked angry. "I never wanted a baby!" she screeched. "I didn't know how to take care of him. And I was sick all the time!" she added defensively.

"Oh, is that what they call being a drunk these days? An illness?" I shot back, my voice dripping with disdain. Okay, okay. I know. I was fighting with a woman dying of cancer. But you know what? Dying doesn't make you a saint. So, honestly: fuck her.

She drew herself up as far as she could from her sitting position. "I won't have this!" she yelled, looking to Seth. "This is what you bring to me when I'm dying? This little bitch who thinks she knows everything?" she looked at me. "That no-good man got me saddled with that boy, and then left me high and dry."

I snorted. "Oh, yeah, poor you," I said mockingly. "You know what you do? You deal with it! You pick yourself up! You don't drink yourself stupid every night. You don't take it out on a little boy!"

I was crying now, losing it, feeling completely hysterical. "We could have had _everything_!" I screamed, my body jerking, hair flying, knowing that even though she would not grasp the full meaning of my words, Seth would. "We could have had everything, but you broke him!"

Unable to stand anymore, I turned, tearing myself from Seth's grip and fleeing, running out the front door. I stumbled on the steps and wound up sitting on the bottom stair, my face in my hands, sobbing as though my life were over.

A soft thud and warmth in the air to my left told me Seth had followed me. I struggled to calm down while he sat silently at my side, one stair up, not touching me. I managed to stop bawling and wiped my eyes with my hands, tossing my head back and taking a deep breath.

I pivoted to face him. His expression was impossible to read. It was serious, but blank, and with his eyes on his knees, I couldn't see what was in them.

"I'm sorry," I said shakily. "I made a complete fool of myself in there." As my hysteria was fading, embarrassment at how ridiculous I had acted began to creep up on me. What had I thought? That calling her on her shit would make her love him? Oh, God, I had been screaming, screeching like a banshee, like a fucking crazy person.

He nodded once, and looked over at me. His eyes were soft, his expression gentle. "Don't be sorry," he murmured finally. "Nothing anyone says will change how she feels about me, but…" he grasped my forearms and pulled me close, opening his legs so I was cocooned in them. "Don't be sorry," he repeated, and I pressed the side of my face into his firm stomach, wrapping my arms around his waist. His hand rested on the open side of my face, securing me to him. His other arm was about my shoulders. He was so warm, so solid, and so, so real. It had been years since I had felt his body under my hands, and now I couldn't seem to stop seeking it out.

He didn't have to say anything, and I had about screamed myself out. So we just sat that way, wrapped in each other, until he glanced at his pocket watch, an old beat-up silver thing, and said we needed to get going.

We stood together, and he came down the final stair to stand in front of me. "Come here," he said, and pushed my arm so I had no choice but to stand a few inches above him on the first step. This way, our faces were perfectly level, and he put his hands on my hips, the second man to do so that day (she thought guiltily).

"I love you," he said, staring into my eyes, and I struggled to find a way to respond. "I love you too," would have been true but potentially misleading, possibly devastating.

When I merely gazed at him, taking in the colors in his eyes, he pulled me closer. I brought my hands to his face and held it while we kissed, soft and sweet. His arms went about my back, and I kept one hand on his face and put the other arm around his neck, pressing our warm bodies together.

Kissing Ben, it felt new and exciting, and made me feel things in all the right places.

Kissing Seth sent those same shivers through my body, and left me wanting more, wanting it all, but kissing him was different in that rather than feeling as though I were discovering new territory, I felt like I was coming home.

We pulled away, and I stepped down and stood on my tip-toes, hugging him, burying my face in the hot skin of his neck, inhaling the scent of him: fresh pine, sweat, and a hint of my cinnamon candle.

As we rode home, toward our friends, toward my house, toward Ben, I wondered: Between these two men, which one could I not survive without? Which would I miss far too much to ever be happy? I loved them both, that was evident. I was undeniably attracted to them both.

But there had to be something, I knew. Something that would tell me, on an instinctive, visceral level, which of these men, who both loved me in spite of my many, numerous flaws, would be the best for me.

All that was left was to find it.

But instead of working myself into a frenzy, I merely slipped my arm into Seth's as we sat on the trolley toward home, and pressed the top of my head into the warm, inviting curve of his neck.

We were at the door when he stopped and dropped my hand. I looked down at my now empty hand, feeling the frigid air rapidly cooling it. "Ben kissed you when he knew I saw," Seth said, adjusting his coat, "But I'm not gonna walk in there holding your hand. That's just dirty."

Twice in one day—_impressed_. First by Ben's viciousness, now by Seth's unwillingness to follow suit. I would have expected it to be the opposite, if anyone had asked my opinion.

I nodded, and we walked inside, just two people separated by a foot of space.

"Finally!" Sprint cried when she saw us. She was carrying a platter of mashed potatoes out to the makeshift table in the living room, where all our friends were seated. The newsgirls were in the kitchen, clearly visible through the propped door.

"_What_ finally?" I asked, glancing at the clock. "It's five forty-nine!"

"Oh, just sit, darlin'," Race said amiably from the middle of the table.

I walked toward the empty chair and halted. They did it on purpose. They had to have done it on purpose. Sprint put out place cards every year, and mine was in between Race and Jack, directly across from the places marked for Ben and Seth.

I was supposed to _eat_ with the both of them staring at me? I looked over to shoot eye daggers at Sprint's head, but she was resolutely looking away from me. I could have sworn, though, that I saw her smirking to herself.

What. A. Bitch.

I sat down, trying not to look as fuming as I was, and Seth sat down next to Ben, gingerly, as though a bit afraid the chair itself was about to explode and blow him to tiny bits.

Ben didn't look all that relaxed himself. His mouth was scrunched forward in the universal expression of awkwardness, and he was looking around himself as though unsure how he got there.

Somehow, feeling so ill at ease, it surprised me when everyone else began talking all at once, conversations flying every which way. Jack, ever tactful, asked Skittery when he and Angel were going to get back together, and I was given a brief respite from my own internal demons as I watched them both sputter and look anywhere but at each other.

Seth smirked, his eyes twinkling, and leaned forward to address Water, who was two chairs down from him at the table. "And when're you and Ginny gonna stop foolin' around and get serious?"

This couple did not sputter or hem and haw, but merely laughed uproariously, and then, in front of everyone, Water planted a kiss on Ginny's mouth, still laughing. "We like it how we have it, thanks," Ginny said, grinning wickedly.

"And you?" Jack said to Mush, for apparently he and Spot were now a razing tag-team, "When're you gonna pop the question to this lovely woman here?" he asked, motioning to Panic, who went bright red and let out a tiny, moaning laugh.

But Mush, far from looking embarrassed, beamed with pride. "_Actually_," he said, drawing out the word and calling everyone's attention to him. "We have an announcement to make."

Everyone at the table froze, forks in midair, napkins halfway off the table, still mouths full of half-chewed food. I had been about to take a sip of water and halted, water sloshing in and out of my mouth as I stared at Panic, who was halfway obscured by my glass.

Panic, still red, looked up, and I realized her flush was not from embarrassment, but pleasure. "We're engaged!" she cried, and then all hell broke loose.

I practically punted my glass onto the table, where it spilled onto the tablecloth, and ran to the other side of the table, pushing through people whose faces I didn't even look at to get to my truest, most loyal friend.

I threw my arms around her and squeezed her as tightly as I could. "When did this happen?" I practically yelled in her face.

She beamed. "Last night." She lowered her voice. "I wanted to tell you, but you seemed upset when you got back, so I just…I'm sorry, I should have told you."

"Whatever!" I yelled. "I'll be pissed off about that later! I'm so happy!" I actually jumped up and down as I hugged her again, feeling, for the first time since this whole mess had started, really and truly joyous.

I released Panic to the crowd of friends and newsgirls clamoring to get a hold of her, and found Mush in a huddle of men, all slapping him on the back. They parted for me, and I swiftly made my way to him and hugged him with all my might, loving him so much, loving Panic so much, and knowing that this couple, at least, would last.

Let's face it: Me, Seth and Ben. Mugger and Water. Skittery and Lady. We were all fucked up. Well, there's safety in numbers, I guess. Or at least someone to deliver the suicide note.

"I'm so, so happy for you," I whispered in his ear, and he squeezed me tighter to him.

"We both love you so much Lyd," he said, the only person—and I mean _only_—who could get away with calling me that. He loosened his grip, and I started to pull away, but he held fast to me, looking into my face, speaking almost too quietly for me to hear him. "I want you to know that whatever you do here," and his eyes flickered over Ben and Seth, who were both starting back to their seats, "We'll both back you. We all will."

I smiled, feeling a little teary, and quickly kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, Jake," I said, and he gave me that top-toothed grin of his and released me to grab hold of his bride.

After that, nothing could bring me down, not even Seth and Ben's refusal to even look at each other, or the way they ate hunched and cramped, trying not to bump elbows, a feat made harder by the fact that the right-handed Seth was directly to the left of left-handed Ben.

In fact, I was of the mood to find watching them mildly hilarious.

It seemed like no time at all before we were all bundling up against the cold to walk the eight blocks to Midnight Mass, which in reality started at ten. We were all Catholic, I guess, in theory, but none of us ever made it to church when it wasn't December 24. But this was tradition, after all, the one thing that Missus Wells, our old director and a raging Catholic, had made us do growing up.

I found myself walking between Seth and Ben, and both of them swung their hands too close to mine for it to be an accident. What did they want from me? Was I supposed to choose one of them right here, right now, by grabbing a hand like we were picking teams in the schoolyard? Was I maybe supposed to hold _both_ of their hands?

I did neither, and we made it in and out of church without incident, though sitting between them, feeling both of their warm, firm bodies on either side of me forced me—really, I had _no_ choice in the matter—to think decidedly sinful, inappropriate-for-the-Catholic-Church thoughts.

By the time we left I was flushed and sweaty, though it had been chilly and drafty in the church.

At the house, it took all of us women to get the girls settled down for lights' out, and it was midnight—_real_ midnight this time—when we got downstairs.

In our absence, the men had turned the dining table into the setting for a poker game, and they all sat around it, clutching cards and sipping booze from rocks glasses, though, Seth, true to his past, had a full glass he was not drinking out of, instead drinking water.

Sprint seemed to notice nothing—she had not been there, after all, but the rest of us—me, Panic, Mugger, Lady, and Angel, stopped abruptly in the doorway, and I, for one, was overcome with the most powerful déjà vu I had ever felt.

A late-night poker game at a lodging house. These people. Seth, not drinking, although the reasoning behind that—fear of turning into his mother: cruel, abusive, terrifying—was much clearer to me now than it had been before.

It could have been three and a half years in the past.

"Whoa," Mugger said, summing it up for all of us with one word.

"Eerie, right?" I replied, and they all nodded.

"What are you women doing?" Race called, looking up from his cards.

"Wondering if we've stepped into the past," Lady replied, moving forward to stand near Blink.

"What's that now?" David asked, looking to Sprint to fill him in, but she shrugged, still clueless.

"It's just this scene is very familiar," Angel said, avoiding Skittery's piercing gaze. "It's very much like that party Brooklyn had. During the strike, I mean.

Seth's eyes flew from Angel to me so fast it was like we were magnetized._ That_ goddamned party.

I returned his gaze, and knew we were both thinking the same things, remembering the same events: The party. The other girl I had usurped from his lap. The laughing, talking, me drinking, touching. And then, in the bathroom, hearing two Brooklyn boys laughing about Spot's women for every day of the week—and my "name," Thursday. The abrupt change in my demeanor, the sex, which I, hating myself but unable to resist, had participated in willingly. The fight in the morning.

That fight. The fight where I good as admitted to him that I was hopelessly, pathetically in love with him. The fight where we both tried to say the most damaging things we could think of in order to spite the other.

The fight that ruined us.

Here we were, all the same guests, the players the same. Our lives were different now, though. We were different now. He, especially, was different now. Hadn't he just told me, only hours before, that he loved me? Said it without stammering, without a flash of embarrassment? Could we perhaps use this moment to change our ending?

An hour later, during which I was largely silent, observing both Ben and Seth, who seemed determined to be as dynamic and winning as possible, and fully aware that I was watching, Seth stood and said he had to be getting home.

"How you plannin' on doin' that, Conlon?" Race, who was spending the night and was, by now, happily drunk, slurred.

"You can't walk," I protested, standing. "It'll take you until three-thirty in the morning to get there on foot."

He shrugged, and I knew that it wasn't determination to check on his mother that was spurning him to leave, but the fact that he had not been invited to stay.

I hesitated. Ben was already planning to stay. In fact, the girls had doubled up into the larger bunkroom so the one across the hall was empty, the bunks waiting for bodies. Everyone was staying

"Stay, Seth," I said finally, and felt the heat of Ben's eyes on my face. My heart jumped a little, but I took a deep breath to calm it. After all, it wasn't as though I had asked him to sleep in my bed with me, right? I hadn't said, "Hey baby, sleep in my bed with me tonight." There were bunks upstairs for everyone. I would be sleeping alone.

Unfortunately. I mean—what? Who said that?

Seth looked around, but most of the group was no longer paying attention, having assumed he'd stay and moving on. Panic was watching me intently, her eyes flicking between Seth and Ben before coming to rest on me. I looked at her and she raised her brows slightly, saying nothing, but I could hear the warning nonetheless.

He returned his gaze to me, his expression difficult to read. When he nodded, Ben stood from the poker table and, saying nothing, walked into the kitchen.

As Seth sat, I followed, trying not to trip under his watchful eye.

Ben was in the kitchen, his back to me as he braced himself on the sink. In the clear reflection in the window, our eyes met. He shook his head at me and looked down.

"It's gonna be him, Lydia," he said softly. "It was always gonna be him."

Without thinking, I practically sprinted across the kitchen and yanked at his arm. He straightened and faced me, but wouldn't meet my eye.

It's not like I knew what to say anyway. I couldn't say anything to either of them, really. Anything I said to reassure him would be taken as a promise, a hope that we would be together. And I didn't know if we would be.

Let people say I led them both on; let them say I acted like a whore, kissing them both, wanting them both. Let them say I was stupid and cruel. But never let it be said that I made them _promises_ I didn't keep.

So instead of saying something that would come back to haunt me, I pulled at him until he leaned, half-sitting, half-standing, against the kitchen table. I stepped close to him and he opened his legs to let me stand between his knees.

His face. He was slap-in-the-mouth gorgeous, but he looked…he looked miserable. Lost.

Without conscious thought, I traced his brow with a fingertip, and when he didn't jerk away, I trailed my finger down his jaw, across to his lips. I stood there for a moment, staring at my own finger on his lips, feeling its softness beneath the pad of my finger.

Ben parted his lips, and I tilted my finger just slightly, just enough to brush against his teeth. His teeth parted, and his tongue reached out to graze my finger. A shock, a thrill, zapped down my spine, and a strangled moan escaped my mouth.

I was this close to shoving him backward onto the table and having my way with him when he withdrew his tongue, shut his mouth, closed his eyes, and turned his head, dislodging my finger and leaving my hand in thin air. Eyes shut, brow furrowed, his face tensed as he took a deep breath. His mouth moved from one overwrought position to another.

After a few of those breaths, he opened his eyes. "I'm not doing this now. Kissing you earlier, in front of Seth, it wasn't right." _There_ was the man I knew. "I don't wanna kiss you in here and then have him drag you off to kiss you, too. It's not fair to…" he shook his head, more a tick than a conscious movement. "Anyone. Him, me, you." He looked up at me. "Next time I kiss you, he's not gonna be in the next room."

And he walked out.

AN: I now have a plan taking shape for the rest of this. Until now I've just been kind of going along with idea where this was going…but now I know….And I am…hahaha. /evil.


	11. Chapter 9

I woke up the next morning to someone standing over my bed. I had a brief vision of being stabbed in the heart by a masked intruder, but that vision was dispelled as Seth, fully clothed in his slightly rumpled outfit from the day before, sat down on my bed and handed me a huge mug of coffee, doctored just the way I liked it.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered softly, his hand lingering on mine as I took the mug from him.

I smiled, touched by this sweetness I had not yet learned to expect. "Merry Christmas, Seth," I whispered back, and took a huge sip, feeling the strong brew begin to ease away the caffeine-deprivation headache I always had in the morning. "You scared me, by the way," I said conversationally, before taking another hot gulp.

He chuckled. "Sorry," he said, and picked up a lock of my hair, twirling it around his fingers. I watched him examine it, watched his eyes travel over his own hand and my hair as though mesmerized. I took a slurp of my coffee to jolt him back to reality, and he jumped and looked up, releasing my hair. "I have to get going," he said finally. "I should really get back to my mother."

"Well you can't go yet," I said firmly. "We have to do presents."

"No one even knew I was coming. _I_ didn't even know I was coming. What's the point?" he asked, taking the mug from my hand and taking a sip of my coffee. He winced. "Ugh. I forgot how strong your coffee is."

"_You_ made it!" I squawked indignantly, laughing a little.

He smiled softly, cocking his head at me. "Yeah, but I made it like I used to see you make it. I'd totally forgotten how disgusting it is." He smacked his mouth open and shut. "How the hell do you sleep? Ever?"

I laughed and took a deep, satisfying gulp. "Mmm," I sighed. "So delicious."

He shook his head and lifted a lock of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear. "You're ridiculous," he said, with no hint of malice in his voice.

We were most likely seconds away from kissing at this point, but feet started to pound on the floor above us, and, both of us figuring we had about fifteen seconds before people came downstairs—people like Ben—and found us in my bedroom together, we both stood, and Seth slipped out the door.

By the time I followed, dressed in a tight-bodiced charcoal gray dress with black lace embellishment and a slim skirt, the tight sleeves rolled halfway up my forearms, Panic, Mush, Ben, Seth, and Sprint were in the kitchen. David and a sleepy Les had dashed out even before I had woken up—Seth mentioned David's shouted, "See ya later!" as he darted out the door—to get to his mother's to join her and his siblings for the day.

"Girls coming down?" I asked, not missing Seth and Ben on opposite sides of the table.

"They should be flying down like bats out of hell any second now," Panic replied, taking a sip of her freshly poured coffee. I watched Seth perk up, clearly anticipating her revulsion, but she sighed with pleasure and looked down at her cup. "This is amazing. Who made this?" she asked, and he slumped, looking adorably disappointed.

"You can thank Seth for that. I think he was trying to poison us with too-strong coffee," I laughed.

Sprint pulled an overly-innocent face. "Too-strong coffee? I have no idea what that means. Is that a thing?"

"Oh, forget it," Seth muttered, but a grin was playing on his face, and even Ben gave a tiny half-smile.

"Oh, by the way, _Merry Christmas_!" Mush yelled suddenly around a huge bite of toast with jam, splattering crumbs all over himself.

"Merry Christmas!" everyone except Seth yelled back, as obnoxiously as possible. I don't know, really. Mush tends to pull us into stupid, annoying, lovable traditions. Seth was looking at us all with the expression of a distant relative surrounded by crazy, psychotic family members.

"I assume everyone else is still passed out?" I said, biting into a slice of apple.

"We're the only non-drunks," Ben said, speaking for the first time.

"You were terribly nicknamed," Seth said suddenly, speaking directly to Ben for the first time since that first night. "I don't even know how a twelve year-old gets that name,"

Ben stared at Seth for a moment as though deciding whether or not to respond to him, but then shrugged. "It was Alex," he replied, glancing at Seth before letting his gaze float around the kitchen. "He was only fourteen, but he thought he was a badass or something. He called himself—"

"Whiskey," Sprint, Panic, and I all sighed. We had all gone a bit glazed in the eyes, and didn't notice Ben, Seth, and Mush all staring at us for a few awkward moments.

I was unapologetic. "It was the skin. Whiskey; bourbon: dark liquor. The same color as your skin." My eyes went to Ben's bare arms and shoulders, exposed in his sleeveless undershirt. "God, remember what crushes we had on Whiskey when he was leader?" I said suddenly, to distract not only myself, but Seth and Ben, who had both looked down at Ben's arms when I did, Ben looking confused and a little pleased, Seth stormy.

Sprint sighed dreamily. "I wanted to marry him when I was twelve," she said, her chin in her hand.

"God, me too," Panic and I said in unison, and Ben stood, clearly trying not to smile.

"Okay, this is getting weird. Can we open presents now, or what?"

Everyone stood, Seth leading the way, and I brought up the rear. Ben stuck his arm in front of me, halting me in my tracks. We both glanced over to see if Seth was hovering, but he was out of sight in the front room.

"A crush on my big brother, huh?" he asked, smirking, adjusting the same lock of hair behind my ear that Seth had.

"Mmm, yes," I said dreamily, fluttering my eyelashes dramatically. "My first love."

Ben shook his head, grinning, his teeth white and even, and leaned in to kiss me softly on the cheek. "Merry Christmas," he whispered against my cheek, in the same tone as Seth had used not much earlier.

"Merry Christmas, Ben," I whispered back, echoing myself.

We all opened presents, and I, at the last moment, dug out my spare cinnamon candle from my bedroom, tied a sloppy bow on it, and handed it to Seth. He sat, holding it in his hand, as everyone else exclaimed over their gifts and the girls ran upstairs to try on their new clothes. I and the other women had pooled some money over the last few months to get each girl a new skirt and blouse, and they were all ecstatic.

I sat next to Seth on the couch, keeping a proprietary distance between us. He ran his thumb over the smooth side of the candle, then held it to his nose to breathe it in. "This'll always remind me of you," he said softly. "The house smelled like this when I walked in. So did you."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him off for suggesting that there would be a time when a candle would be the best reminder of me he would have, but I managed to hold it in. _No promises_, I reminded myself. At least not until I was confident that I could keep them.

When everything was cleared away, Seth said his goodbyes, and even exchanged a strained handshake with Ben, both of them, I think, thinking of Seth's previous comment, which, though it seemed innocuous enough, was really a reminder that once, their relationship had not had ups and downs that depended upon me, that they knew things and anecdotes about one another that no one else did.

"You're sure you can't stay?" I asked, looking him up and down, at the candle he still held in his hand, the bag of bread (we hadn't eaten it all, despite the "bread emergency" the day before) dangling from his fingers. He hadn't shaved, and his clothes were getting more wrinkled with every second, but to me, he looked astounding. I remembered the slouching, sexy boy of my teenage years, seeing him shining through the adult face of the man before me.

"I've been gone a lot longer than I should've been already," he said, sounding a little on edge, and I knew he was dreading finding something amiss when he returned—like his mother's dead body, for one. But I wasn't worried. One, because, let's be honest here, her death wouldn't exactly be a national tragedy. Two, because I doubted that woman would let go of her clutch on life before she could manage to say at least one more horrible thing to Seth. She would probably make him watch her die.

"Okay," I said finally, not knowing exactly how to say goodbye to him. He took the burden off my shoulders by putting his arms around my neck and pulling me to him gently. I breathed him in and was only a touch self-conscious when I realized that he was doing the exact same thing.

"So when will we see you again, Seth?" Panic asked, and I shot her a sly, grateful look, because I knew she had seen me faltering, wanting to ask but not knowing how in front of everyone.

"Oh, uh," Seth looked around. "I don't really know. I guess I'll stop by tomorrow if that's okay?"

"Tomorrow is perfect," Panic put in smoothly, and she and Sprint stepped forward to kiss him lightly on his cheek. He exchanged a handshake with Mush, told us to tell everyone else "Merry Christmas" when they finally woke up, and left.

The rest of the morning was spent munching on leftovers and razzing the hungover masses as they woke up and took their red-eyed leave.

When we were down to just the newsgirls, Panic, Mush, Sprint, Ben, and a returned Dave, I went into my room to put away my few presents—a new winter-weight nightgown in a crisp, pristine white, perfectly selected by Lady and Angel, who both had exquisite taste; a romance novel from Panic that I suspected was more tongue-in-cheek than anything; oils for the bath from Sprint; a magnificent-smelling perfume from Mugger. Typically, their men had simply penned their names onto the cards, the epitome of lazy. Race had given all us women gorgeous, boldly-colored scarves, Jack silver-plated, chunky bracelets. Brandy and Miranda had brought homemade jam.

Everyone else had brought something small, something well-received but largely impersonal. It was, after all, hard to buy gifts for people you didn't see but a few times a year.

Skittery, however, had given me a small, shrunken, jade green man's undershirt, showing me once again that he knew me better than I thought he did by silently conveying that he was aware of my predilection for donning men's clothes on my lazy days.

It was strange. I loved Skittery; I really did. He was hilariously cynical, and I didn't think our group would be half as much fun without him. But I had always assumed that we were friends by association, and our relationship existed because he had been with Angel, and was best friends with Blink and Mush, who were cemented into our group by their women.

What was it that Seth had said? "Every single guy who came to Brooklyn the other night loves you so much they were willing to fight for your honor." And hadn't Ben said that Skittery had been the most furious that night? And later, he'd said, "Do you not see the affect you have? You make people want to be around you."

I hadn't noticed, really, that my friendships with these men had, over the years, grown independently from our group, growing their own identities, or that if everyone else in our gang were to disappear off the face of the earth, we would still be friends. We were no longer friends by association, drawn together because of mutual links. We were just…friends. Family. I knew, all at once, that I would do anything for each of those men—Blink, Skittery, Mush, Water, Dave.

Oh, God, a flippin' Christmas miracle. Realizing who your true friends are, and what's most important in life, all that good stuff. I rolled my eyes at myself for being so disgustingly sappy, but the truth was, I was feeling pretty damn lucky.

I had gotten nothing from Seth or Ben. Not that it mattered, I told myself, trying to ignore that stung feeling in my chest. There was a soft knock on my half-open door, and when I turned, I saw Ben peering around the doorframe.

"Hey," I said, trying my best not to sound bitter. No such luck. He smirked a little as he entered, shut the door, walked over to my bed and plopped down on it.

"Someone a little put-out about no present?" he teased, and I crossed my arms belligerently before he pulled out a tiny box painstakingly tied with a bow.

"Not anymore," I said brightly, reaching for the box. He whipped it out of my reach and yanked my hand, causing me to go flying at him. He caught me deftly and lowered me to sit on the bed beside him.

"I didn't wanna give this to you in front of…" he trailed off, and I knew that he didn't want any mention of Seth right now. "Well, I just thought, it'd be nice to see you open it when it was just us."

He handed me the box, a rounded red velvet square, and I gently pulled the forest green ribbon off. I hesitated before opening it, wondering if (or hoping? Dreading?) it was a ring.

It wasn't. It was a long, silver necklace with scuffed and worn silver coins dangling from it by tiny holes that had been drilled into their tops. The coins all depicted stern-faced men on one side, and a seal on the other. I couldn't tell what they said, but assumed, since these came from Ben, that the writing was Greek. The year on the coins said 1878.

As I held the coins in my hand and rubbed my fingers over them, marveling at them, Ben lifted the chain from the box and held the necklace up to the light.

"I had one of the guys at the factory make this," he explained, his voice nervous. "They're coins my parents brought with them from Greece when they came here. They always held onto them, and Alex and I both took some when they—when we went to Brooklyn." He had just leaned forward to put the necklace around my neck when I leaned back, and he froze.

"I can't take this," I said, unspeakably touched and honored by his gift, but nonetheless horrified at the thought of taking these priceless mementos away from him.

He lowered the necklace and looked at me like I'd hauled off and smacked him. "Why the hell not?" he demanded, his voice slightly higher than normal, and I knew he was thinking of Seth, wondering if the game was over.

I put my hands over his, running my fingers over the silver chain. "I can't take these things away from you, Ben," I explained, and his face softened as he looked down at the coins. "They're a part of your parents."

He looked into my face and gave me an endearing half-smile as he reached one hand into the collar of his shirt and pulled out another chain, this one short, with only one coin hanging from it. "I didn't give 'em all to you," he said softly, and let the chain fall.

I looked into his dear, beautiful face, taking him in, all the history etched into his features. For all I knew about my ancestry my ancestors could have arrived on the damn Mayflower or sailed into Ellis Island fifty years ago. But Ben, he knew everything—cities and towns in Greece where his family had come from, relatives who still lived there, names of people he would never meet and their entire life stories.

These coins, they weren't just coins to him. They were a part of his history, a part of his family, and mostly, a part of the parents he had worshipped. And he was giving most of them to me.

Well. Isn't that a kick in the face? Just another reminder of how deeply and honestly this wonderful man loved me, and of how terrible, awful, and selfish I was.

Ben slipped the necklace over my head and around my neck, and I fingered the coins, which hung to my sternum, leaving them exposed outside of my dress.

"Thank you," I whispered, and opened the collar of his shirt to touch his necklace, the companion to mine, not a twin, but without which the collection was incomplete.

There _had_ to be a metaphor in there somewhere.

One hand on my own necklace, the other on his, I looked into his dark eyes and said, a little louder, "I love it."

"Just _it_?" he murmured, his voice deep and rumbling, and there was no time to move or prepare before he kissed me.

This time, there would be no interruptions, and if there were, well…happy eyeful, sucker.

He was on top of me, his hands seemed to be everywhere, and his mouth was hot and tasted like the peppermint candies we had set in bowls all over the house. Somehow, we shifted to lie in the middle of the bed, my head on the soft downy pillows.

He pushed his hips into me, and I gasped, feeling pleasure shoot from my pelvis up through my spine, making my skin taut and my head spin. As I tilted my head back, Ben tucked his to graze his teeth along my neck, his soft curls caressing my jaw. In a frenzy, I yanked open his shirt, popping buttons, which clattered around the room, and reached down to pull off his undershirt, leaving his dark skin exposed.

He worked the buttons on my dress, taking considerably more care than I had to avoid damage, and soon, all that separated us from the waist up was my corset and chemise.

"Goddamned thing," Ben muttered, working the front ties impatiently before opening the corset and sliding it out from under me. He yanked down the straps of my chemise, losing patience, and his mouth suctioned onto one breast. Immediately, I cried out, and he shot back up to my mouth to muffle my voice.

He pushed his hips into me once again, insistently now, and I felt him—all of him—against me, and my hands moved of their own accord to the buttons on his trousers, but as soon as my fingers found purchase on them, Ben shot backward as though electrified, and was up and off the bed before I could blink.

He went to the far wall and leaned against it, his hands above his head, bracing himself as he breathed, heavily, gasping, in and out.

Confused, alarmed, and not a little disappointed, I pulled the straps of my chemise up to at least partially cover myself as I sat up.

"Ben?"

"I can't do this," he gasped, and at his tone, I was up and off the bed like a shot, hurrying over to him.

"Ben," I repeated, putting a hand on his hot, slightly sticky shoulder.

He dropped his hands and his head hit the wall with a dull _thunk_. "I can't do this," he said to the wall. "I want to so bad it's killing me. But I—fuck." He straightened and turned, flopping back to lean against the wall. "It's not like I'm some virgin. But it's different with you," he said, avoiding my eye, his cheeks starting to darken with humiliation. "I can't just have sex with you knowing _he's_ gonna be near you after, trying to do the same thing."

"Are you saying you think I'd have sex with both of you in the _same day_?" I demanded, feeling mortally insulted, yes, but mostly, ashamed, because chances were, I would probably do exactly that, if it came down to it.

"Wouldn't you?" he asked, finally looking at me, piercing me with a stare, one that clearly said, _I know you. I know all the things about you that you hate._

I didn't answer, but I'm sure the way I dropped my head to stare at the floor, where my eyes lit on a discarded button, was confirmation.

"God, Lydia, what do you _want_?" he half-shouted suddenly, his voice breaking, and he brought back a fist to punch the wall.

I backed away, not so much scared of him as overwhelmed and surprised. Was this Ben? Steady, constant Ben?

He followed my footsteps, closing the gap, and took my face in his hands, more firmly than roughly, and shook me slightly. "What do you want?" he repeated, his voice lower but no less forceful.

I shut my eyes against the look on his face: fear, anger, desire. "I don't know," I whispered, knowing it wasn't good enough, knowing I had said it before, would probably say it again, knowing that I was killing him, that I was…_Oh, God_.

I was doing the exact same thing to him that Spot Conlon had done to me. Jerking him around, making him love me, and then pulling it all away. Playing with his emotions. Hurting him in a way that, if it didn't end well for us, he would never truly recover from.

The realization that I was inflicting the same pain I had endured and suffered onto another person—no, not just another person, onto Ben: stunning, wonderful Ben—made me feel breathless.

The only upside was that I knew what to do to at least hold him over, to comfort him at least a bit. When my relationship with Seth had crumbled those years ago, I had wanted, more than anything, for him to at least show me, in some way, that he was hurting like I was.

So I cried.

No, actually, I basically sobbed my eyes out, sinking to the floor, and Ben came down with me as I choked out, "I never wanted to hurt you. I hate this. I hate myself. I wish I could tell you yes or no, but I _can't_." I managed to pull myself to my knees and look him in the face. My breath was coming jerky and erratic, and I wiped at my still-leaking eyes.

"You don't deserve this. I don't deserve you," I said, slightly less frantically than before. "You should hate me. You should just walk out on me. It's what I deserve."

Ben shook his head and wiped my eyes with his thumbs, his hands gentle on my face. "But I can't just walk away now, Lydia. Not when there's a chance," he said, his voice soft but insistent, unbending.

"It's what I deserve," I repeated. "To lose you." But even as I spoke, my fingers traveled up his ribcage to clutch at the muscles at his sides, as though my body were determined to hold him there at all costs.

"You deserve more than you think you do," he said, showing me more kindness than I could ever hope to earn, unfailing in his belief that I was a good person. "Come here." He pulled me forward, and, on our knees, my arms around his ribs, my cheek on the warm, soft skin of his chest, his face pressed into the top of my as head he held me to him, I felt rather than saw the few hot tears he allowed himself before he sniffed, cleared his throat, and pulled away.

"I should go," he said, and stood to get dressed. His shirt was gaping open, his undershirt exposed, and I knew that once he had gone, there would be questions from the others.

I stayed where I was, kneeling on the floor, and he crouched down on his way out to lift my chin with his fingertips and plant a kiss on my temple.

Once he was gone, I stood up, in a haze, and pulled my own clothes back on. It wasn't until I was finishing buttoning my dress and was smoothing my skirt that I felt it in my left pocket.

I reached into it and pulled out a key on a tan suede string. I recognized it instantly. Spot Conlon's mysterious key, the one he had always worn around his neck and answered no questions about. And suddenly, I realized I knew this key, although I had not recognized it without the string, when it materialized on its own from a pocket.

Seth had, in his days as Spot, kept the key to his mother's apartment around his neck. And here it was, back on the string, just as I had known it. He had obviously planted it on me as he'd left, given it to me as a message to—what? Go to him?

Could I? After what had just happened? It would, after all, be just what Ben had been afraid of—that I would run to Seth moments after being with him.

It would prove that I really was this terrible person I feared I was.

But as I stared at the key, warm from my pocket, I knew I would go, for how could I not?

I had probing questions from concerned friends to avoid. I had warring and conflicting emotions, thoughts, and wants roiling around in my brain. I had tears threatening to overflow that I desperately wanted to avoid, if only for a little while.

I had Seth.

So instead of proving Ben and myself wrong and staying home, I did it: I grabbed a spare coat and Race's scarf, and exited the lodging house through my bedroom window like a wayward daughter, hitching rides like I had done so many times before, running to Brooklyn, to Seth.


	12. Chapter 10

Chapter Disclaimer: Please read and understand this before going on: This story is **rated M** _for a reason_. That is all.

.

It was dark by the time I arrived on Seth's doorstep, and though my skin was icy, I was hot and panting. I had half-ridden, half ran to Brooklyn, and I could feel sweat accumulating on my scalp, tickling my skin.

I didn't know what I was doing here. It was crazy, reckless, and irredeemably stupid, but nonetheless, I was at the door.

I unbuttoned my coat and breathed a sigh of relief as the frigid hallway air rushed to my body. I looked down to grab Seth's key and was pulled up short when I caught sight of Seth's key and Ben's necklace, tangled together on my chest.

Well. That's just great. Really stupendous. Thank you, metaphor fairy, for visiting me again.

I pulled them apart and slipped Seth's key over my head, fitting it into the door, my hand shaking just slightly with nerves.

Opening the door, I stepped into the tenement. It was dim, with only a few candles—my cinnamon one included—lighting the dank room. Really, that tiny candle was no match for the smell of this place.

But as I stepped further into the room, my nose sensed a change. No longer was the room overpowered with the scent of human waste, but something else. A smell that was not sweet, or bitter, or _anything_, really.

But I knew that smell. I had come across it in the ward where I had said goodbye to my mother, a mask over my face.

My pulse quickened and I felt all my organs, muscles, and skin contract in fear as the hair on my arms and neck stood at attention.

I was standing, stiff and still, in the middle of the room when Seth came out from behind the curtain, looking as spooked as I felt.

He didn't look surprised to see me there, but he took in my body language and the expression on my face and nodded once.

I struggled to stay composed. I had not smelled death in the air since my mother had died, and even though I knew the woman in that room was not my mother, I was terrified.

"Is she…?" I said, my voice slightly strangled and dry.

He shook his head. "No, she…" he looked back to the curtain and gestured helplessly, and I knew it would be a matter of moments, possibly minutes, before his mother was dead in that bed.

I wanted to ask if he was okay, but that would have been absurd. Of course he wasn't. I knew that deep down, Seth held onto some hope that one day, his mother wouldn't resent him, that if he tried hard enough, she would show him, in some way, no matter how small, that she cared for him, loved him.

And now it was really too late. And nothing he had done for her since coming back had made any difference. Now was the time to admit that his mother would never, could never, love him.

I started to go to him, but he stalked away to the kitchen before I could reach him, filling a glass, so I stepped forward to stand a few feet away from the curtain. I could just barely hear shallow, rattling breathing that gave me goosebumps.

Seth passed by me with the glass of water, and when he passed through the curtain, I caught a glimpse, in no longer than the time it took to blink, of his mother lying in that bed. Her skin was pale and waxy in the candlelight, and her eyes looked blank and shrunken.

"Come on, Mama, you need to drink," I heard Seth murmur, and immediately, the tears I had come here to avoid welled up in my eyes.

"Leave me alone and let me die in peace, boy," she tried to snap, but it came out sounding choked and exhausted, and I closed my eyes, as though doing so would block out her voice, the senseless cruelty she bestowed upon her only child—and for what? For the father abandoning her? That was her reason for hating him, for neglecting him, for trying to kill him? She was dying, and he was trying to help her, and she still couldn't…

I felt such a rush of fierce protectiveness for Seth that all I wanted to do was march in there and lead him out. My muscles actually tensed in preparation for doing exactly that, but I managed, barely, to hold myself steady and wait.

If I pulled him out of there before he was ready to go, he would never forgive me. He had to let her go of his own accord.

"Please, Mama," he said softly, his voice desperate. I could almost hear his mind, his heart, begging for more time to make things right. But there was no time.

She said nothing more, and we all stood or laid or sat completely still, waiting. I wanted to sit, but was far too petrified to, so I stood there for over an hour, barely moving.

I felt it before I heard it. Some kind of change in the air pressure, and then—there it was: that final, rattling breath of death as the air escaped her lungs.

I stood there for a few minutes longer, hardly daring to breathe, my eyes wide and my ears cocked, listening. There was a rustle as Seth moved, shifted something, and then a muffled creaking as he leaned forward in his chair.

Moments later, he exited, dry-eyed and still avoiding my gaze, and put his coat on.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice cracking a little in alarm at being left there with her dead body.

"The restaurant down the street. They have a phone," he said, still not looking at me, focusing more intently than necessary on buttoning his coat. His voice sounded as though he had rocks in his throat, and made my chest clench. "The hospital told me to call the Fullerton funeral home. The arrangements are already made."

He walked out, and I stared after him in shock. Had he really, truly, just left me here in this shithole of an apartment with his mother's dead body? I know it's ridiculous to be afraid of a dead body, but I was. The sight of own mother's dead body in that bed, in that casket, lowered into the ground had forever instilled in me a horrible, paralyzing terror of dead people. Fear worked its way through my insides, and I let out a small whimper, feeling embarrassed, yes, but not too embarrassed to dispel my panic.

I moved and sat on the couch, curling into myself, my elbows on my thighs, hands curled at my mouth, staring at the curtain as though expecting it to move were I not vigilant. I suppose there were sounds, sounds of families in the other tenements going about their Christmas evenings (Oh, God, it was still Christmas) , but to me, it was silent, so quiet the complete lack of sound seemed to press in on my ears.

Seth must have waited for the funeral home outside, because it was over forty-five minutes before the door opened. I didn't move as Seth and three similar-looking brown-haired men, all in their thirties—brothers, I assumed—entered with grim faces, carrying a wood and canvas stretcher. They gave me what I guessed were sympathetic nods and disappeared with Seth behind the curtain.

A few minutes and a lot of rustling later, the curtain was pulled open, and two of the men exited the apartment with a sheet-covered lump on the stretcher. I watched it go with wide eyes, barely taking in the third man's instructions: when to finalize the details, the time of the service, the burial.

And then they were gone, and that was that. Seth leaned against the wall, his face turned toward the door where the men, and more importantly, his mother, had left.

My fear was lessening slightly, and I was trying as hard as humanly possible to not be livid that he had left me there for nearly an hour with a dead body, as even _I _knew that now would not be the best time to yell at him for that.

But he must have glanced over at me, at my wide, staring eyes and the tight coil of my body, my fingernails digging into my top lip as I struggled to relax my body, to breathe, to push down my absolute horror at being there with that body.

"Lydia?" he said finally, and his voice cracked a bit. Suddenly, he was at my side. "Hey, hey," he said, sounding a little frightened, pulling my stiff hands away from my face and moving so that he was in my field of vision. I licked my lip and felt the nail marks in it.

I tried to focus on him, and finally blinked, the world clearing in front of my face. He held my frozen hands in his and searched my face. Suddenly, his expression jolted with comprehension. "Oh, Jesus, Lydia," he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine. "I shouldn't have left you here alone."

I took a deep breath, willing myself to _get a fucking grip_, because he needed me more than I needed him. This was my moment to be the strong one, to be there for him, and I was letting fear make me fail.

"I'm fine," I said, trying to also convince myself. "It's fine; I'm fine," I said, my voice a tad shaky but not frantic.

He pressed his lips to my forehead for a long moment, and stood, looking around as though lost for a moment, looking for a brief flash like a tiny boy, before heading into his mother's bedroom. I saw him sit at the foot of her bed before he pulled the curtain closed yet again.

The silence that briefly followed was broken an instant later by a sharp, agonized exhale, and I didn't even have to steel myself before I flew to my feet and hurried forward, yanked the curtain open, and saw him there, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clenched together before him, head bowed. I didn't hesitate as I grabbed hold of his forearms and pulled. He didn't fight me as I stood him up and led him quickly from the room.

One hand on his arm, the other on his back, I walked slightly behind him and steered him toward the couch. He sat, and the arm at his back immediately went about his shoulders as I sat next to him, still holding onto his arm.

I could feel his breath on my arm, hard and fast as he gasped for air. He still had not looked up when his breath sounds changed, and a tiny note of pain escaped his mouth as he started to cry. My stomach jumped and my chest compressed, as it always did when a man I had always viewed as infallible cried—and I was making them cry a lot these days.

In one motion, I pushed him back into the couch by his shoulders and pivoted, swinging a leg over him to straddle him, the only thing I could think of to get as close to him as possible as quickly as I could. His eyes were shut, his face—that striking face—twisted in pain. I sat on him, sliding myself into him, fitting our bodies together, and laid my hand gently on his face. He leaned his cheek into my hand, then turned to press his mouth to my palm, which, if you've never had done, will make your entire body hum, trust me—I actually squirmed a bit. When he turned his mouth away, I leaned forward to put my arms around his neck, cocooning his entire body in mine, stroking his soft, short hair.

His eyes were pressed into the curve of my neck, his mouth on my upper chest, open and wetting my dress. His arms curled up to clutch at my shoulders from behind, and he pulled me down, ever closer, pressing me even more firmly into him.

We stayed that way for a long time, and his body trembled as he finally, after all the years of abuse at the hands of his mother, allowed himself to let go, to put down, if only for a moment, the wall of grit and swagger he had built up around himself.

He was not loud. It was not the flamboyant crying of small children or hysterical women. His tears flowed freely, but the only sounds he made were the violent exhalation and inhalation or air, and the occasional, tiny whimper as the air rushed past his vocal chords. Each heartbreaking whimper made me hug him more tightly, wishing, somehow, that if I held him tightly enough, it would be alright.

He finally pulled away, his eyes wet and red, his nose running slightly, and I felt all sorts of damp liquid on my dress. I didn't care. I had thought only for the man whose firm body was beneath mine, who looked as though he had been strung up and tortured. He leaned his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes, his arms sliding down my back and resting gently at the top of my backside.

I kept one arm behind his neck and freed my right hand to press it against his face. I smoothed his brow with my fingers, feeling his silky, sweaty skin under my fingertips. His eyes fluttered open, and he focused on me.

"It's over," he said finally, his voice wobbly.

"Yes," I said softly, soothingly. "It's over now."

He shook his head. "It was too late," he managed, clenching his eyes shut. "It was too fucking late to change anything."

I pursed my lips to keep from crying with him and cupped his cheek with my hand, feeling the warmth from his face melt into my cold skin. "It's not your fault," I said, my voice still hushed, but firm, final, and we both knew I was referring not to her death, but to her life, and the way she had lived it with her son.

"I should've been better," he whispered, and I felt outrage swoop through my stomach. This was unacceptable. In his grief, he was finally, after a lifetime of fighting not to, convincing himself that her treatment of him had been through some flaw of his own, and not hers.

"Seth, no," I breathed, and moved my hand cup the side of his neck and give him a gentle shake. He opened his eyes, and, as always, as from the very start, they stole my breath a little. They were so piercing, so intense, so brilliant.

But he would not be comforted. "I was too late. I'm always too goddamned late." He licked his lips and swallowed heavily, turning his head and staring off to the side. "I was too late for you, too. I waited too long." His voice was rising, gaining speed. "I waited too fucking long and now…" he trailed off, then looked back to me.

"Oh, baby," I whispered, and leaned down to press my lips to his cheek, savoring the slight scratch of his stubble. As I went to pull back, he turned his head, his lips so close to mine I could practically feel them already.

I looked down at those lips, and anticipation rose in my chest; I flicked my eyes back up to his. Something flashed there, and I felt that same light zip through my own, and then we were kissing, and he straightened on the couch.

My hands went to either side of his face, holding it to mine, and his hands tightened on my backside, pulling me into his body, pressing my pelvis into him. I felt a rush begin there and work up my body, and it felt slightly different than what I had felt with Ben.

With Ben, I had wanted him, had felt a curiosity, a need to know what it would be like.

With Seth, I wanted him, but there was no curiosity. There was simply, overwhelmingly, a deep need to find him again, to let him into me once more, to experience, once again, how he had made me feel when we had joined together.

His eyes were still wet, and I was pressing his tears onto my own face as we kissed fiercely, gripping and pulling and pushing at each other.

Then our hands were flying at each other's clothes, our mouths nipping at whatever piece of bare skin we could find. He worked his shoes and socks off with his feet, jostling me back and forth while I removed his shirt and was once again thunderstruck by his strength, by the splendor of his body. He lifted me up briefly to pull my dress over my head, untied my corset and removed it, allowing a gust of sweet oxygen to rush into my lungs. He pulled my chemise down and let it fall to my hips, taking in my bare torso, the skin there. He looked like a starving man as he ran both hands over my breasts and down my ribs, ending at my hip bones and kneading them, which made me cry out.

He flicked his eyes to me for a split second before pulling the chemise down over my body and legs, freeing me completely. I was nearly naked on top of him, only my thigh-high black stockings left, the garter fastenings hanging, as he had somehow managed to separate them from my corset, and my bare skin pressing into the fronts of his trousers was at once rough and strangely pleasurable. It didn't last long as he pressed his feet into the floor and lifted us both to yank them and his underclothes down and off, supporting my entire body with his arms, which rippled with the effort, and then, both suddenly and finally (for hadn't this been coming since the moment he had set foot back in the City?), I was lowering myself onto him.

I gasped sharply, a spasm jerking my body as a hot flood of pleasure ratcheted up my spine. _Oh, God—I remember _this. Seth's gasp was low, guttural, and he fixed his eyes on me, his expression dark and intense. My mouth was open slightly, and I looked down at him, my jaw tight.

"Seth…" I managed, and whether it was a plea or a declaration, I couldn't say, and he pulled me down, pushing himself deeper, and kissed me softly, both of us breathing the other in.

He guided my hips as I moved on top of him, and his hands were in every place that drove me insane as I supported myself with my hands at the back of his hot neck.

When we finished together, our bodies stuck together with perspiration as I arched my back and his fingers dug into my hips, arms straining as he pulled me to him.

I collapsed forward, laying my forehead on his shoulder, and he pressed his into mine as we both tried to catch our breath. He kissed my bare, flaming skin, and I sat up slowly, feeling a bit lightheaded. I did not want to move, didn't want to break the joining of our bodies, not after so long without it.

I kissed his eyelids, his temple, cheekbone, and then kissed his lips lingeringly.

He maneuvered me so we were pressed together, on our sides on the couch, lying vertical. He held me to him to keep me from toppling right off onto the floor, and this time, the foreplay was slow, lazy, all gently caresses.

I peeked my eyes open and watched him as he kissed the skin at my collarbone. His mouth was soft, his eyes closed, eyelashes resting on his cheek. He was more beautiful than I'd ever seen him look, content for the first time since he had returned.

He moved so I was on my back, and moved slowly on top of me, stroking in and out of me so slowly it was torturous. It took longer, this time, for either of us to finish, but we weren't hurrying. As me moved together, we both kept our eyes open, drinking each other in.

When he came, his face tightened, and every gorgeous muscle in his impressive body tensed. I ran my fingers up his abdomen quickly, feeling the contours of his muscles, and he bucked, curling his body in before pressing his weight into me and covering my own sighs and moans with his mouth.

Afterward, we finally disentangled ourselves and both dressed, me in some of his clothes, which, while years ago would have fit me perfectly, were now far too large. I rolled the waist of a pair of deep gray trousers and the sleeves of a white undershirt while he pulled on navy flannel pajama pants. And nothing else.

His thick torso was bare, tan, perfect, with just a slight covering of blonde hair.

I was just starting to feel awkward and wondering what in the hell to do next when he took my hand and led me to the couch, where he led me to lie down against the back, and then stretched himself out next to me.

"Please stay with me," he whispered, tracing my face with his fingers, and I nodded without even considering the alternative. Regardless of whether or not we'd wound up having sex, there was no way I would leave him tonight. Not alone; not in this apartment.

And here, I could sleep with his warm body next to me. I wouldn't have to stick him on the couch in my own living room and force us both to sleep all alone. I didn't think it was wrong of me to assume that alone, he would lie awake all night long.

"I love you," he murmured, and kissed me softly, his fingers just grazing my chin.

"I love you, too," I said, automatically, the words exiting my mouth of their own accord, and didn't even wonder whether it was wrong to say, or what it possibly meant for our future.

I knew three things for certain: One, he loved me. He was as flawed as I was, made horrible mistakes just like I did, but he loved me, and on some level, I had always known that—wasn't that the reason, after all, that I had been waiting for him? Two, he needed me. He could not spend tonight alone, not when he seemed to be always on the verge of tears, broken in some terrible way by the death of his mother, the woman he could never reach.

And three, I loved him. It was as yet unclear if I loved _only_ him, but the fact remained that I loved him.

He looked into my eyes, perhaps reading all those thoughts in them, and slid an arm under my neck, using the other arm to yank a quilt from the back of the couch before pulling me to him.

I snuggled into him, my arms tucked against my body, the backs of my hands against his chest, and hooked a leg over both of his.

"Thank you," he whispered, and fell quickly into an exhausted sleep.

I watched him sleep for what felt like hours, watching how, even in sleep, his facial muscles were tight, how his brow furrowed occasionally as he walked through dreams, before I burrowed closer to him, my temple pressing into the hollow of his neck, tucked safely under his chin, and fell asleep myself.


	13. Chapter 11

I woke, warm and nearly impossibly comfortable, to banging on the door. I jerked, startled, and managed to crack a just-waking Seth in the chin with the top of my head.

"Ow! Fuck!" he half-shouted, leaning back and immediately toppling backward off the couch in a flurry of pin wheeling arms to land with a bone-jarring thud on the floor.

I was too busy hyperventilating with helpless laughter to see him, holding his mouth, walk over to the door, pull the chain, and open it.

I was still choking on my own spit when I looked up to see Panic and Sprint standing just inside the door, looking from me, incapacitated with the giggles, to Seth, whose lip was bleeding from where he'd bitten it.

I sputtered a little from a combination of surprise and an attempt to get myself under control. "Hey!" I managed, my voice shrill from laughter.

"Well, hey," Panic answered, her face wry. "Good morning?"

I finally sat up, pulling the gaping neckline of Seth's shirt up so it at the very least kept my nipples from slipping out, and looked at Seth, who was wiping his lip with a towel he'd swiped off the table, shaking his head at me with begrudging amusement in his eyes.

"Since I woke up to injury, not really," Seth said finally, and I snorted and chortled as I stood from the couch and walked over to him, pressing my fingers onto his lip.

"Totally unintentional," I said, checking my fingers for blood. It seemed to have stopped for the time being. "But oh, God, if you could have seen yourself fall off the couch," I added, trying not to start laughing again.

"Yeah, and if you could've felt your lip split open," he shot back, rolling his eyes but not quite managing to hide a smile.

I grinned at him for a moment before remembering that Panic and Sprint were still there, both staring at our spectacle with matching expressions of incredulity and dawning comprehension.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked, trying to head off the gears turning in their brains.

"I called them last night," Seth supplied. "After."

And then I remembered. I had somehow forgotten, what with all the sex, cuddling, coma-like sleep, and laughter, why I was here, what had happened.

His mother was gone. And he had done what he had come here to do. Would he really stay? I wondered. Or would he bury his mother, clear out her home, and leave?

I watched Seth look down as though noticing for the first time that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He murmured an apology to Sprint and Panic and pulled a clean undershirt from his bag, pulling it over his head. I watched, wistful, as his solid torso was hidden from my view, and as I watched, I berated myself for not finding the answers to all the questions that still needed to be answered. You know, like maybe before having sex with him.

There were countless, but the most important: What did he want from me? Would he stay if I asked him to? Would he ask me to go with him? Or would he just…leave me again?

"He told us you were here, which was news to us," Panic said, and her voice was mild enough, but I could hear the scolding in her tone, and winced a little. "And what happened."

"We just thought maybe we'd come and see if we could help with anything?" Sprint added, sounding tentative, as though the entire situation was worrying her—which, let's face it, it probably was.

Seth shook his head and sat at the table. "My mother made all the arrangements months ago. The hospital knew about them, and told me. All that's left is bringing some clothes to the funeral home and…going," he said in a flat voice.

My heart jumped. "Going where?" I demanded, my voice a touch higher than I would have liked.

He looked over at me, his brows drawing together. "The funeral," he said, as though it were obvious.

I'm sure it _was_ obvious, to a person who wasn't currently in a tizzy about him potentially taking off again.

"And then you must have to clear this place out," Panic said, ever practical, "And take the things you wanna keep."

Seth sighed and looked around. "I don't want anything," he said with finality, and Panic nodded.

"Well, we could help you clean, maybe?" Sprint asked, still sounding a little skittish. "Or take the clothes down for you."

I wondered then if my friends were really here simply to help, or if they wanted to keep an eye on the situation. The way Panic kept looking at me with a motherly disapproval made me nearly certain it was the latter.

"I should take the clothes," Seth said finally, and stood. "I'll just get dressed, I guess," he said, a little uncertainly, and scooped up his bag to take with him to the lavatory in the hall.

Once the door had shut behind him, Panic and Sprint swooped down upon me, each of them taking one of my arms and pulling me backward. They practically tossed me on the couch and stood before me, looking for all the world like police interrogators moving in on their prime suspect.

"You slept with him, didn't you?" Panic said, her arms folded under her ample chest.

Sprint looked from me to Panic, her face stricken. "Oh, Lydia, you didn't!" she moaned, and massaged her temples with her hands.

I immediately went on the defensive. "That's none of your business," I snapped, and Panic rolled her eyes.

"That's not really the point, Lydia. The point is, what does that mean?" She licked her lips in what I knew was annoyance. "We saw Ben when he left last night. He was practically halfway undressed."

I sighed and ran a hand through my loose, sleep-mussed hair. "Yes," I said finally, giving in to the inevitable. They would beat it out of me anyway. "Yes, something happened with Ben last night. Not what you think—it didn't go that far. But something happened. But he left. And then I found the apartment key in my pocket—Hey!" I interrupted myself. "By the way, Spot Conlon's infamous key was the key to _this_ apartment!"

Sprint looked stuck by this news, and murmured, "Of course!" but Panic would not be distracted.

"Well, I kind of figured it was once he told us about this place," she said, and I immediately felt stupid for not having realized it sooner. "So anyway, you found the key and…?"

"And I came, okay?" I snapped, feeling like a caged animal. "I didn't even know what I was gonna do when I got here. I didn't come here with some _plan_ to sleep with him." I looked down at my hands and felt the tears coming, and when I looked up, I could hardly see through them. "She died. That horrible woman died, and he…" I shook my head, pursing my lips. "He was so…" I couldn't even say it, could not put into words, the way he had looked—devastated—or sounded—heartbreaking—and I shut my eyes against the memory of how he had clung to me as he had cried, confused and wrecked by everything that had transpired.

"It wasn't a plan," I repeated. "It just happened."

Panic looked uncharacteristically frustrated. "Sex doesn't just _happen_, Lydia. What did you do, fall on it?"

My jaw dropped in shock. Panic did not talk like that. I did, certainly, but I had a foul mouth and a dirty mind—never a good combination.

Sprint was also gaping at Panic, who looked more than a little surprised herself. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. It was Sprint who broke first.

"Oh my God," she whispered, and then started snickering, and Panic and I joined in, laughing quietly together.

Still smiling, Panic and Sprint sat down on their side of me, and I leaned back in order to see both of them at once.

"Okay, so we needed that break in the tension," I said lightly. "Look," I went on, "I'm sorry. And I know you're just concerned about me. I'm not gonna lie to you here and tell you I know what I'm doing, because I don't."

"Lydia," Panic sighed. "I know you wanna forgive Seth. But do you _remember_ yourself the last three years? _He abandoned you_. And I know he's different now, but is he different _enough_?"

"Will he stay with you this time, Lydia?" Sprint asked, sounding more confident than she had thus far. Sprint was a watcher, not a speaker, and had always had a bit of trouble voicing anything other than observable fact.

"I don't know that, either," I said, my voice small.

"And what about Ben?" Panic asked matter-of-factly, as though crossing topics off a list.

"I don't know about that, either," I said lamely, feeling my face flame with shame.

"Are you gonna_ tell_ him?" Sprint asked, turning to me with wide eyes.

"No!" I exclaimed, then paused. "Well, Jesus, do you think I should?"

"Jesus would probably say honesty is the best policy, but I think that would be a terrible idea," Panic said drily, and I chuckled in spite of myself. "I'm not saying it's a good idea to start having sex with both of them," she added sternly, "But if you still don't know anything, telling him would only hurt him."

"Oh, Lydia, why is it not for sure Ben?" Sprint asked, putting her face in her hands in exasperation.

"Why does everyone think it _needs_ to be?" I said belligerently, slapping my thighs with my hands.

"_Because_, Lydia," Panic began, false, exaggerated patience in her voice, "He's been there for you for three years. He's been your best friend. He's loved you, and waited for you."

"_We_ love him, Lydia," Sprint added. "And we want to see him _and_ you happy. Together."

I sighed deeply, thinking it all over, then shook my head and ran a finger over my eyelid, feeling trapped, pressured, and most of all, guilty.

The door opened and Seth came back in, heading straight to his mother's room, where he picked out a surprisingly appropriate and pleasant cornflower blue dress that was at least ten years out of fashion, but passable.

He looked down at all of us on the couch, and when our eyes met, I didn't know whether I felt like laughing or crying. Sprint and Panic must have looked like my security team, sitting next to me like imposing bookends.

"I'll, uh, I'll just drop this off and get the final details, then," he said haltingly, and his body seemed to spasm a little, as though it wanted to come to me to say goodbye, and his brain was working overtime to stop him.

"We'll start packing stuff up and throwing things away," Panic said, her voice ever-pleasant, and Seth nodded a little spastically and walked out.

I could almost hear him exhaling in utter relief as he escaped and shut the door. I wished fervently that I could run out after him, but alas…

By the time Seth came back nearly two hours later with fresh, hot biscuits and a jar of honey in his hands, I was ready to die myself. Okay, that was insensitive, but honestly—Sprint and Panic had not stopped hounding me—in a careful way that would have made me look paranoid to anyone looking in—since Seth had left. When he walked through the door I wanted to fling myself on him in thanks.

Hours later—long, awkward hours during which Seth and I barely spoke, we both felt so self-conscious—I finally left with Sprint and Panic. I hung back at the door and motioned for them to go on, and, after giving me looks of raised brows and pursed lips, they did.

I didn't say a word, just turned and threw my arms around his neck, pulling him to me. He kissed my neck, not sexually, I wouldn't say, but more…oh, I don't know; thankfully, perhaps. Gratefully.

"The funeral is tomorrow," he said when we pulled away. I nodded wordlessly. I would go, of course. There was no question about that.

"Do you want anyone else to come?" I asked, knowing that any and all of our friends—my friends, technically, at this point—would go if I asked them to, but he shook his head.

"I don't…" he shut his eyes. "They gave me the overview of what the priest is gonna say. I don't know if _I_ can stomach all the bullshit about her being a loving mother, so…"

"Why didn't you say something?" I asked. "Tell them to just talk about her…going into the light, or whatever it is they say. Keep it anonymous."

He shook his head. "Because then I would've had to explain, and it was just easier…" he trailed off and rubbed his head with his hand. "I just don't want anyone there. Except you," he added, taking my hand in his, our fingers laddered, strengths over weaknesses, and pulled me closer.

"Then I'll be there," I answered, and touched his face with my free hand, the tips of my fingers just to the side of his mouth.

He nodded, then leaned forward to kiss me in the same spot my fingers had rested on his face. "It's at one," he said, "But can you come earlier? I don't think I can just sit here all morning."

"Yes," I said automatically, squeezing his hand. I knew all too well how it felt to be all alone, waiting for a dreaded moment: how time seemed to slow to a pace that was unbearable, how every minute stretched into a thousand. "I'll come first thing. You can put me to work."

He raised a rakish eyebrow, and I immediately started laughing. "Oh, God!" I said, dropping my head in good-natured embarrassment. "I meant finishing packing this stuff up."

He actually cracked a smile, and I turned to go. He let my fingers trail nearly fully out of his before he tightened them like a vise, yanked me to him, and kissed me fiercely, his hand on my jaw, tilting my head back.

There was no tongue, no fondling, no indication that sex would follow, but it was easily the most passionate kiss I'd ever experienced, and when I finally headed out the door, I found myself walking down the hall quite liltingly, head buzzing as though I'd drunk an entire bottle of spirits down like a shot.

That night, I was just coming down from getting the girls into their bunkrooms when Ben walked through the front door.

"Hey," I said, and knew that I sounded as though I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Or, well, if you're getting technical, it'd be more like _on_ the cookie jar, but—No? No.

"Hey," he said nonchalantly, shutting the door and flinging his coat off and onto a chair, looking like the very picture of a man coming home at the end of the day, and I marveled at how easily he fit here, how much he belonged.

Did Seth look like that? I wondered. I didn't think so, but then, Seth didn't seem to look like he belonged anywhere, except maybe with me.

Just the thought of that made me feel guilty, and I wiped my forehead, as if, "_I slept with Seth!"_ were inscribed there.

"So what brings you here?" I asked, as causally as possible, walking toward him.

He lifted an eyebrow, missing nothing. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, sitting down on top of his coat.

"Nothing," I said, a touch too innocently, and sat down in the chair next to him.

"So I heard," Ben said, and my heart literally crashed to a halt in my chest.

"What?" I said, feeling panic and fear rise into my throat.

"His mom," Ben added, looking over at me and studying my face carefully. "What the hell is wrong with you right now?" he asked again, and I shook my head, scrambling for an answer that wouldn't sound like complete nonsense.

"I'm just…I feel bad," I said finally, pulling a plausible excuse out of thin air. "It's just sad, you know? That he never got a chance to make it better with her before she died."

"Well, maybe he did. You never know what they said to each other before. If it were me, I'd wanna make things right before I died."

"Well, she didn't," I said without thinking.

"How do you know?" Ben asked, and for a moment, there was no suspicion on his face, just curiosity. Then it crept in. "Were you there?" he demanded, and stood up, his body going rigid with hurt. "Did you _go_ there last night?"

"I…" I made some unintelligible sounds before leaving my mouth hanging open unattractively. I should have just said that Seth had told me that day, that he called to let us know the news, and that I had been there with the girls.

But I couldn't lie to him. I couldn't make that up, and force my friends to cover for me. Most of all, my brain wasn't working that quickly.

"You went there," he said flatly, and looked away from me, studying the air in front of his face. "You went there after what happened yesterday, with us." He turned his head back to me, and, with no judgment, no damning, said, "Just like I said you would."

My lips parted, and I stared at him, feeling anguish build in my chest, making it impossible for me to think of anything to say.

Ben put his hands deep into his pockets, his shoulders rolling forward, and I thought, incongruously, how ridiculously handsome he was, and how little I deserved him. "Did you…" he shook his head and licked his lips, a tick starting in his jaw as he struggled not to yell at me. "Did you sleep with him?"

Oh, sweet merciful Christ. I felt my eyes darting around the room, and cursed my reflexes for being too slow to head off that panicked impulse, for in that split second of darty-eye, he knew.

He straightened, and his hands bunched in his pockets as he looked at me as though he'd never seen me before.

And maybe he hadn't. It was entirely possible that Ben had believed in me so much that he hadn't seen what I had always known—I was selfish, especially when it came to love. I had given all my love to one man years ago, and that man, when he had left, had taken away my ability to be fair in a romantic relationship, or to think of anyone or anything but myself.

Maybe with Seth's return, some of that ability was returning, because hadn't I at the very least not promised either of them anything? Hadn't I agonized and wrung my hands over the thought and reality of hurting them?

But the fact remained: I had done it. I had participated. I had, secretly, enjoyed all the attention. I had loved being loved by both of them, even though it made me feel terrible. It's lovely to be wanted.

But now, all I felt was regret. Ben would go away, would be wounded and filled with hate. And he would be justified. But I hadn't, despite sex with Seth, reached a place where I could see my life without Ben.

"Ben—" I started, but he held up a hand, wordlessly cutting me off. I breathed in with fear, my chest rising violently. My heart was on a collision course with my ribcage as it beat wildly in my chest.

"Don't." He didn't look at me as he picked up his coat and shrugged it on. I watched him, utterly helpless, as he strode to the door, his movements jerky with rage.

He looked back at me as he opened the door, and the naked pain I saw there made me draw in my breath. "I would have loved you your whole life," he said, and his voice was hard with hurt that made my neck prickle and my shoulder blades draw together with shame. "Ask Seth if he can do the same thing, or if he's gonna just bail out on you again."

I must have made some sound, because he went on as though trying to head me off. "I hope you're _fucking_ happy about this, Lydia," he finished, and the venom in his voice made me flinch.

I moved forward desperately, needing to say something—anything—to possibly salvage this. But before I could take two steps, he was out the door, slamming it behind him.

I ran to it and yanked it open, going out onto the stoop, where snow was beginning to pile up, and watched him run down the slippery street, his steps sure and graceful even as people around him walked carefully, their feet sliding on the new ice.

I watched him go, because there was nothing else I could do. I would never catch him—not physically or emotionally.

I could not fix this.

AN: Oh, you think we're reaching an ending? Oh, no, folks, there's a lot more story where this came from. It's not gonna be this easy….


	14. Chapter 12

I knocked at Seth's door at eight o'clock in the morning. I had woken at four that morning, completely wired, and had sipped coffee for over an hour, staring out the foggy window at the snow, the dark world looking sad and sinister to my eyes, which were red from crying. I had made a passable breakfast for the girls and scooted out the door at the first stirrings from Sprint and Panic, needing to avoid their eyes until much, much later in the day—perhaps when my own weren't so wrecked.

I had taken my time getting to Brooklyn, walking most of the way in the slush and snow, reveling in the cold and wet, feeling as though I deserved it. Hell, I'd probably freeze to death, or they'd have to chop off some of my toes. That would be fitting.

I had as good as maimed Ben the night before. I may as well have cut off a piece of his body, torn flesh from bone. The look in his eyes kept appearing behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes, and had made it nearly impossible to sleep—and when I did, I still saw him, saw his face: every bone, muscle, and tendon tensed with hurt and rage, a nerve going in his jaw while his cheekbones seemed to somehow sharpen with anger. But his eyes…his face had been angry. His eyes had been so wounded, so betrayed, and I knew I would never be able to fix it.

If I had let him go when I had planned to, when I had tried to, we could have probably salvaged our friendship. I knew now, after all the things we had said and done, that there was no going back.

I had changed our relationship forever. Smashed it to pieces. And as a result, our entire group would be changed, too. There would be sides, of course. No one would like it, or want to do it, but I knew there were people—like Water and Blink, for instance—who were more loyal to Ben than they were to me. They wouldn't leave, of course, not when their women were my best friends, but it would be different from now on, I knew.

They were both such easy, funny men. Constant, dependable, if a little hyperactive (which, to be honest, made them even better, in my opinion. I can be a little spastic myself, on occasion). I wondered how much of that humor I would see after this mess came to light.

I hadn't planned to tell the girls, not yet. I had stood on the front step for a long time, while the snow fell around me, staring in the direction Ben had disappeared, as though willing him to return. I did not wear a coat, and when I finally realized this fact, my entire body was trembling and shivering, my skin hard and cold.

I had finally forced myself to blink, to turn around, to go back inside. And there they were: Sprint and Panic, in the front room, waiting.

They had heard every word, of course. We had stared at each other for a long moment, and then I had shaken my head slowly, still feeling stunned and dazed.

Panic and Sprint, my wonderful, beautiful girls, had known that words were not what I had needed. Nothing they could have said would have made me feel better. So they simply surrounded me and held onto me. I stood with my eyes closed, feeling my eyes starting to well up.

But while I welcomed embraces, I would not, could not, abide them comforting me as I cried over the mess I had created. So I had kissed them both smack on the lips and went into my bedroom, where I had spent the night alternating between crying on my bed and sleeping fitfully.

Really, I had become more pathetic and sad than I had ever though possible. Really, I am not this girl, I swear. I was literally rolling my eyes at my damn self at this point, but…God. It was just so horrible. I was acting pathetic and sad because…because it _was_ sad. It was unbearable.

And here I was, on a promise, to accompany Seth, the other man I loved, to his mother's funeral, and all I could think about was how horrendously I had hurt Ben. And obviously, confiding in Seth would be a terrible idea. I may bungle things up on a regular basis, but even _I'm_ not_ that_ stupid.

So I had put extra makeup on, especially around my eyes, and was praying that Seth would be too preoccupied to notice.

I knocked on the locked door and smoothed my dress, the same one I had worn to David's father's funeral. The bodice was high-necked, slightly taller in the back, pressing against my neck, and all thick, concealing black lace, just enough to show the tiniest flashes of my skin, until the sweetheart neckline, where a thick underlay of sturdy winter cotton curved over my body, the lace still present but less noticeable. The skirt was heavily pleated black cotton. The sleeves were more of the thick lace, and a bit much, in my opinion, for a funeral, but the service was to be held in the cemetery, and there would be no cause to remove my coat, I reasoned.

The only reason I had bought it in the first place, really, was because it made me feel a little dangerous. Fashion was moving forward quickly, and necklines, especially for evening dresses, were getting lower. I wasn't ready to flirt with that quite yet, at least not at a funeral, but Lady and Angel had literally gasped when I had stepped out of the fitting room to get their opinion. Any time the sight of me can make those two women gasp, I hold onto that look with an iron grip.

For Mr. Jacobs' funeral, I had conceded to social standards and worn a hat for once in my life, but I had specifically found the smallest one I could find, a slim, round hat that fit a bit rakishly over my hair, which today, for this funeral, I had twisted into itself and put up. My one allowance to the ridiculous hats of the season was the black rosette on the side, which was a little large for my taste, but what can you do? There really hadn't been anything smaller, and the milliner, when I had chosen the hat and accessory over a year ago, had asked me, pointedly, if I was quite sure I didn't want more added onto it.

No, not really, thanks.

Anyway, none of that really matters. Anything for a distraction, right? My agony loves a good tangent.

Seth opened the door and gave me a grateful smile. I returned it, hoping my face didn't look as tight and pained as it felt.

"I can't believe you're here this early," he said as he showed me in, the side of his mouth quirking up in his skepticism as he glanced at his pocket watch as though to make absolutely sure it was as early as he thought it was. He knew, of course, that morning had never been my favorite time of the day.

"I woke up early," I replied, and said no more.

"You had enough coffee, then?" he said, and this time, his mouth titled in a smirk, and I felt momentarily better, with this man who knew me well enough to tease me about my many idiosyncrasies.

"Never will I have had enough coffee," I said, smiling a little for the first time in what felt like years, and we killed a few minutes sipping hot, strong coffee. I noticed Seth grimacing slightly, subtly, with every mouthful, and was probably more touched than I should have been to realize he had made this coffee too strong for his liking specifically to please me.

When we were finished, we spent a couple silent hours on opposite ends of the apartment, putting still more things into boxes and trash bins. It seemed as though the work of four people the day before had scarcely made a dent. Seth periodically brought all the trash down to the alley, and wound up bringing most of the salvageable items down to the front stoop, where anyone passing by could pick up what they wanted.

The apartment was almost picked clean by the time I found the photo. It was in a drawer, wedged into the back, and horribly preserved. But the little boy in the photo was unmistakable, and I stared into his little face, awed.

"What is that?" Seth was at my side, and as soon as he had fixated on the photo of himself, he had plucked it out of my hands to stare at it himself. He flipped it over, and on the back was written, "Seth Conlon, 1885."

"Three," I murmured, and peered at the picture again as he turned it back over, my cheek on his shoulder.

In the picture, little Seth Conlon was standing in front of the door of a building similar to the one we were in now, his eyes serious in his tiny face. He was beautiful, with impossibly long lashes and big eyes in his thin face. He looked a little underfed, but the miniature slingshot in his hand—a precursor, I guess, for the ones he had brought into use in Brooklyn—suggested a feisty spirit. Those eyes, they were brilliant even in this small, grubby picture, and they looked haunted even then, wary of the world already, but prepared to survive.

"I wonder who took this," he said softly, and turned it back over to look again at the handwriting. "That's not my mother's writing. It must've been a neighbor or something." He looked at his own image once more, running his thumb over his own small, printed face. "They were the ones who took care of me most of the time."

I slipped my arm through his and wrapped my other arm around it, hugging it to me as I pressed my cheek more firmly into his shoulder. He turned toward me, putting my body sideways to his chest as he hugged me with the arm I had not taken hostage. He planted a kiss on my head, and breathed in and out through his nose with his mouth on my hair.

"You're not okay," he said, his voice so low I almost missed it.

I closed my eyes and shook my head against his chest. "Just…not now, Seth," I whispered, and he started to pull away, but I held fast to him. "Just stay."

He tucked the picture away in his pocket and pulled his arm out of mine, turning me to face him, taking both my arms in his hands and looking me in the face. He studied me for a moment, as though reading my thoughts there, and then pulled me back to him, his arms around my back, my head on his chest. I wrapped my arms around the small of his back and tucked them under his shirt, resting them on his hot skin.

I felt warm, and safe. The gnawing in the pit of my stomach receded as he held onto me, and I listened to his heartbeat, slow and strong. I blocked out every sound except that one, every feeling except where his body touched mine, and felt his pulse flow into my body, somehow tricking my own heart into following its lead. I felt myself calming, almost melting into him, and I lifted my face to press my lips to the warm skin just under his collarbone, exposed by the neckline of his undershirt. I tilted my head back further to move my lips to his neck, and pressed them firmly to the tendon that pulsed with his heart.

His body shuddered when my lips made contact with that fragile skin, but he stayed otherwise still, still holding me firmly.

When I finally pulled back, he was staring at me with a searching look on his face, as though trying to figure me out. It had to have been clear to him that I was not alright. He was intuitive enough to guess that it had to do with Ben, but I sensed that he would not come right out and ask me, mostly because he didn't really want to hear the answer.

"I should get cleaned up and changed," he said finally, and as he spoke, my eyes were on his lips, watching how they formed around words, so it was not a surprise when he kissed me. It was at once insistent and tentative, as though he were trying to convince me I wanted it but also doubtful that I did.

But I had never grown out of wanting him to kiss me.

He went briefly to the washroom, and when he returned, he slid behind the curtain to change into his suit. When he came out, I actually had to catch my breath. His entire suit, shirt and suspenders included, was a smoky black, slim fitting. His shoes were highly polished, and against the stark black, his light eyes seemed to glow in his face. He held a black, slightly squared-off bowler in his hand, and was looking at it a little uncertainly.

"Should I wear this?" he asked. "I feel like an idiot in anything but a newsy hat."

I very nearly laughed, and picked up my own hat and put it on my head, tilting it slightly to the side like Angel had instructed the first and only other time I had worn it. "If I have to wear a stupid hat, so do you," I said firmly, and crossed the room to take it out of his hands.

"You don't look stupid," he said softly as I adjusted the hat on his head, tilting his also, feeling a little defiant.

I stepped back, and my pulse jumped. The brim of the hat cast a shadow along his face, making him look a little dangerous and a lot sexy. "Well, neither do you," I said, taking him in.

I decided to look my fill in the next couple hours, so I could possibly make it through the funeral itself without lusting after him. Somehow a graveyard seemed inappropriate a place to have such thoughts.

We walked slowly to the cemetery, stopping to eat lunch. Seth turned into a small shop and came out with a bouquet of gorgeously colored Gerbera daisies, my favorites, the blossoms bold in their coloring—burnt orange, vivid red, sunshine yellow, and an outrageous deep, vibrant pink. I assumed they were for his mother's grave until he handed them to me.

I took them slowly, feeling my lips part in consternation. "You bought me flowers?" I managed, running my fingers over their thick silken petals.

He shrugged one shoulder, looking a little embarrassed but pleased with himself all the same. "Just, you know, to say thank you for coming with me today," he said, tugging on his earlobe with one bare hand, the very epitome of awkwardness.

I pressed the bouquet gently to my chest. "These are my favorites. How did you know that?"

He took my arm and guided along the sidewalk. "I didn't. They just look like…you," he said, ducking his head a little.

We walked slowly the rest of the way to the graveyard, and I did not miss how women on the street stared at Seth, the way their eyes, lowered subtly, followed him as he walked, watched his face and the movements of his body. Instinctively, I tightened my grip on his arm, and he looked up and caught the look on my face as I eyed two young women about my own age, who were walking toward us, whispering and giggling, their eyes on Seth.

"Ah, don't be jealous," he said, grinning at me.

I stiffened. "Who's jealous?" I muttered, unable to stop staring daggers at the rapidly approaching women, who were still staring at Seth.

He stopped walking and took my face in his hands, tilting it up to land a soft, sweet kiss on my waiting lips. I kept my eyes open and watched his lashes flutter on his cheeks. He pulled away and gave me such a classic Spot Conlon smirk I felt as though I were looking into the past. I actually saw him on the Brooklyn docks, holding court, slouching and smirking just like that.

He rubbed his thumb along my face, leaned in to my ear, and whispered, "They are."

As we turned and continued walking, I saw he was right. The girls who had been ogling Seth were now staring resolutely ahead, although the darker of the two cut her eyes at me as we passed, and I could not suppress a smirk of my own.

"You're meaner than you look," Seth remarked, and my chest clenched automatically as I thought, _I know_.

I pushed that thought aside, deciding compartmentalization was my new motto, and we arrived at the cemetery right on time.

One of the Fullerton brothers was waiting for us at the gate, dressed in a somber black suit and wearing an expression of utmost seriousness. I suppose it was a necessity of the job, putting on that grave face. Honestly, I should have probably been taking notes.

"Mr. Conlon," he greeted Seth, and I felt a little jolt of amusement run through me. "Miss," he said, inclining his head to me. I was at least gratified that he had not called me ma'am.

Word to the wise, men: Every woman—young, middle-aged, or old—hates that shit. Call us Miss even when we're sixty. Ma'am makes us feel crotchety and ancient.

"I'd like to say again how very sorry I am for your loss," Fullerton continued, and I pressed my lips together and nodded in what I dearly hoped was a sadly appreciative expression.

Seth merely nodded once, his jaw tight, and as we walked through the cemetery to his mother's burial site, I slipped my hand out of my glove to place it in his, wanting to feel our skin pressed together.

A tiny, ancient, white-haired priest with skin so white and dry he looked as though he had been smacked in the face with a handful of flour stood by the open grave, next to the closed casket. Fullerton ushered Seth and I to the foot of the casket, and then quietly, quickly, departed.

When the priest began talking in a wavering voice about Clara Durham, my brows furrowed and I looked around to Seth, wondering, for a moment, if we could have possibly been led to some other woman's casket. But his face was unchanged as she stared at the rough wood of the casket, never looking at the priest.

Clara Durham. I had known, of course, that the "Mrs." part of "Mrs. Conlon" had been a fabrication. I hadn't, however, guessed that she would have given Seth his father's last name. Was it a way to lay claim to him, to defy his abandonment? Or had it merely been a way to further distance herself, if only in her own mind, from her child?

The priest seemed to know an inconceivably large amount of information about Clara Durham, and, as he went on singing her praises, it slowly dawned on me that Clara Durham herself had written this little eulogy. She spoke, through the priest, a lot about her childhood and adolescence in Connecticut, about moving to New York City at twenty-one.

When the priest reached the blatant, jarring lie about her marriage to one Daniel Conlon, and his subsequent tragic death, Seth stiffened next to me and clenched my hand. I squeezed back, knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it.

"Clara Durham gave birth to the couple's son mere month after her husband's death, and raised him with as much love and devotion as a single mother could. Her child left home early, and Clara contented herself with a few friends and simple pleasures," the old man was saying, and I knew I was gawking, stunned by her nerve.

Seth was fairly trembling with rage, and when the priest paused for breath, he shook his head and moved forward, holding up a staying hand to the priest, who looked at him in shock.

"Stop. Just stop," Seth said, and his voice was loud but unsteady. "I can't listen to this…this…" I could hear the word "shit" in his head, but knew he was too Catholic to say it in front of a priest. He looked down at his mother's casket as though he wanted to kick it. "You wanna know who she really was?" he said, a challenge in his tone, and I stepped forward with a rush of anxiety.

"Seth, don't. Come on," I said, grabbing for his arm, but he was already started.

"She never married my father. He didn't want her. And she didn't want me. She hated me," Seth was saying, all in a wavering rush, to the flabbergasted priest, who clutched at his Bible and notes so hard I feared he was going to break his brittle little fingers. "She beat the hell outta me every chance she got," he continued, his voice rising in fury, and I stopped yanking at him, riveted. "She was a mean, violent drunk, and she doesn't deserve to have you believe her lies."

Seth paused to look again at his mother's casket. I feared he would go on, but he stood there for a moment before closing his eyes briefly. He crouched next to the casket and laid his hand on it. "You should've loved me," he said softly, and my heart splintered. He stood. "I'm sorry, Father" he said to the priest, his voice trembling, and he walked away.

I let him go on his own, waiting a moment to give him some time. If he had wanted me to come, he would have taken my hand, not walked off alone.

The priest was still looking as though he'd just watched someone get bludgeoned to death. We stood in tensed silence for a few minutes, then I turned to see Seth standing at he gate of the cemetery, leaning on it smoking a cigarette. It was time to hightail it outta here.

"I'm very sorry, Father," I said finally, my voice soft, and to my surprise, he nodded with sudden conviction.

"Death brings out all sorts of secret stories," he said finally, "I shouldn't be surprised anymore."

I smiled weakly and turned to go, at the last second stopping and turning back to Seth's mother's casket.

"Do you think she can hear me?" I asked the priest, and he seemed relieved to be back on solid footing.

"Yes," he said simply, "I think she can."

I fixed my gaze firmly on the casket. "Well, in that case," I said, "You didn't deserve him. And he_ certainly_ didn't deserve you." I looked up at the priest. "I'm sorry for this Father," I warned, and as he opened his mouth to respond I looked back at the casket and finished, "I hope you burn in Hell."

Then I spun on my heel and left the priest staring after me, naked astonishment on his old, wizened face.

I joined Seth at the gate and, determined not to baby him, not here, outside, in public, where it would only humiliate him, I instead plucked the cigarette from his fingers and took a drag, not even caring that passersby were shooting me disapproving looks. You know, a lady smoking in the street. All that nonsense. Like my bedroom is classier or something.

"Do you want me to take you home?" Seth said finally, clearing his throat before speaking.

"No," I said, handing him the cigarette back. "I want us to get lots and lots of food and go back to your apartment."

So we did. We bought bread and cheese and butter and cubes of ham, plus divine caramel buns for dessert, and entered the nearly-empty tenement. All that remained was the bed and the couch—the things we couldn't carry down the stairs.

I immediately dug into Seth's bag for the clothes I had worn the previous day and slipped them on before we sat down to eat. The bed was strictly off-limits, as far as I was concerned, mainly because: putting my body in the bed some old bitch died in? Seriously disgusting. So we put the couch cushions on the floor and sat cross-legged on them. Neither of us said much as we ate, and when the food was gone, I leaned back against the foot of the couch and surveyed Seth as he toyed with the last bit of bread, rolling it back into a ball of dough with his fingers.

I spoke suddenly, without intending to. "I want you to tell me what happened to you."

He jerked upright and stared down at me, his eyes blazing. I felt briefly nervous, but forced myself to remain leaning, remain casual and non-threatening, and met his eyes with a calm gaze.

"Why the hell would you want that?" he said finally, looking more irritated than anything.

"Because I want to know you," I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You _do_ know me," he insisted, looking around as though someone could possibly have materialized that could possibly be interested in our conversation. "You know me better than anyone."

I very nearly snorted. "Yes, and I know next to nothing about what happened to you with your mother."

"What does that have to do with _anything_? It's done," he said, and balled up the newspaper the meat had been wrapped in.

"It's _not _done," I shot back, feeling my neck starting to get hot. "She's gone and buried, but what she did to you made you who you are. I want to understand what happened to you."

"_Understand_?" Suddenly he was on his feet. "What's there to understand? There is no understanding!" He was yelling now, the ball of newsprint smashed in his fist. "She ignored me when I was a baby. An old neighbor told me once that she used to let me lay on the floor and cry. The fucking _floor_. If it weren't for the neighbors I probably would'a starved to death," he spat.

"When I was a toddler I'd go to my neighbor's to get food, 'cause I knew there wouldn't be any in my own house. I had black eyes all the time from about four on. She used to tell me she hated me. She'd get drunk and tell me I was a mistake." He threw the ball of paper at the wall.

"Seth—" I started, but he interrupted me.

"What? _What_? You wanted to hear this, Lydia! You wanted to know! You wanted to know all about how my own mother used to slap me in the face for asking for food. You wanted to know all about having to break twigs off trees in the park to make a goddamned fire in the winter when I was five." His eyes burned hot as he stood in the center of the room and I cringed into the cushion, unable to look away.

"You wanna know all this?" he demanded. "How she broke my arm when I was seven 'cause I didn't get her a drink fast enough? Or how about the big one? You wanna know that too?"

"Seth, I—"

"No, you wanna know, right?" he said, his voice dripping with false, manic good-humor. "I was twelve. She was drunk, as usual. I was trying to clean up after her and I broke a picture frame. She grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. I already had a dislocated shoulder from when she'd shoved me into the wall a couple weeks before." He shut his eyes, seeing the scene behind his lids. "I started crying, and she shook me and hit me a couple times and told me that she never should've had me, that I was bad, and useless. She said there was no purpose for me."

He opened his eyes and looked right at me, and I felt my insides shrivel with shame for having made him do this. "She dragged me out of the apartment and pushed me down the stairs. I caught myself on the rail with my good arm about halfway down and ran. When I got to the lodging house they cleaned me up. I had another black eye, the shoulder, a busted lip, and a twisted ankle."

He stopped, breathing hard. I literally couldn't move. I could not remember, it seemed, how to move my limbs.

"Is that good enough for you, Lydia?" he said, his voice hard and cold. "Or do you want me to tell you more? Like how I cried in my sleep when I first got to Brooklyn, and how Ben would crawl in with me and tell me it was alright."

_Oh, God_. Ben. Of course he did that.

"You wanna know every detail about how what she did to me is the reason I treated you like shit? You wanna know how terrified I was when I finally realized how fucking in love with you I was? You wanna know every thought I had when I ran—like how I was sure you would hurt me, because everyone did. Or how I was sure I would turn into my mother and do something unspeakable to you."

I was crying now, could feel the tears on my face and my breaths speeding, but I still could not physically move.

Seth crouched down in front of me and parted my raised knees so he could kneel between them. Slouched against the couch, I was in a very vulnerable position. He took my upper arms in his hands, and I was surprised at how light his grip was.

"You wanna know the rest?" he asked, his voice less heavy, less angry. "I missed you. I missed you every goddamned day I was gone. And I came back here because my mother asked me to, which she didn't deserve. If I hadn't known there was chance I could see you, I wouldn't have come," he confessed, and leaned in a bit closer.

"_I love you_. I love you, and I wanna marry you, and spend the rest of my life making up for what I did to you."

I didn't say a word. But suddenly, I had regained control of my extremities, and I took full advantage of that by sitting up and wrapping my arms around his neck to kiss him.

The entire moment was so intense and climactic I heard, in my head, a swelling orchestra of music.

He picked me up and hoisted me onto the bare frame of the couch. It was hard and uncomfortable, but I didn't even notice as he stripped me of my borrowed trousers and slid his own down to his knees. He pushed my shirt up to reveal my stomach and I, supporting his weight on my knees for a split second, divested him of his shirt.

Every inch of me was aching for him, and I pulled him down—fast, hard—and opened my legs to let him in. He entered me, filled me, and I cried out, not caring who heard.

He lowered his mouth to my breast and nipped at me, every tiny bite sending a rush of pleasure through my body.

Suddenly, I needed more, and I seized his hips, forcing him further into me. His mouth shot up to mine, and he kissed me, hard, wet, as the arm that wasn't supporting his body moved to replace his mouth on my breast.

"Oh, God," I murmured against his mouth, and he smiled against mine, laughing lightly in an exhale.

He pressed his pelvis into mine, rubbing our bodies together firmly, and we moved together until my breathing got higher in pitch and his got faster.

We came together, and he pushed into me as far as humanly possible, straining against his own body.

Finally, both of us panting for air, he lowered his full weight onto me, and I sighed contentedly. We were still joined, and he pushed into me once, slowly, languidly, before resting his head on the top of my chest, under my chin.

I let my fingers trail the shell of his ear, the cut of his jaw, then pushed at his chin so he lifted his head. His eyes were hooded with fatigue and satisfaction, and he kissed me deeply, then rested his forehead against my shoulder.

At some point, we found a blanket and shifted to the floor, where we fell asleep, exhausted, together on the couch cushions.


	15. Chapter 13

The next morning, I woke before the sun in a much better state of mind than I had the day before. I snuck out of the apartment and went to the washroom in the hall and painstakingly cleaned my entire body in the freezing water. By the time I was done, I was practically blue with cold and I felt like my wet hair was freezing into icicles on my head, but I was clean and energized. I applied my cosmetics in the tiny mirror in my own compact, as the wavy mirror in the washroom was too dirty to see into.

I pulled my funeral dress back on and crept back into the apartment to find Seth, clad only in long, tight cotton briefs, building up a fire while a pot of coffee simmered.

He looked over at me and shook his head. "I knew you were gonna do that," he said reproachfully, coming to me and pulling me to stand in his arms in front of the fire.

"I felt all grimy," I said, leaning my head back against his hard chest, savoring the heat from the fire on my front and the warmth from his body on my back.

He slid one arm away from my front and pulled my drying hair from my neck, planting a soft kiss on it. "I'll get cleaned up and dressed, and then we need some food," he said into my ear, his voice low enough so that I could feel it vibrating on the sensitive inner shell.

He slipped out and I waited, sipping hot coffee and practically standing inside the fire. By the time he came back, dressed simply and beautifully (in my biased opinion) in charcoal trousers and vest over a deep midnight blue shirt, I had slurped down the entire cup and was warm from the inside out.

We went out to breakfast in the cold, rapidly brightening morning, and by the time we exited the restaurant, fortified by our large breakfasts, the sun was out in full force, and the light on the still miraculously clean snow was so bright we both winced away from its glare.

We weren't far from the building, and our eyes still hadn't fully adjusted by the time we got back, so when I heard a voice, a frantic, panicking voice, yelling my name, I wasn't sure who or where it was.

I shaded my eyes with my hand and focused on a figure running toward us through the crushed and slushy snow. Water.

I jerked, completely taken by surprise. What in the hell was _he_ doing here?

"Paul?" I said uncertainly, still not quite comprehending what was happening, and not understanding at all the look on his face—wild, feral, terrified.

"_Where the hell have you been?_" he demanded as he reached us, and he squeezed my upper arm roughly, as though now that he had found me there was no way he was going to let me slip away.

"I've been _here_!" I said, my voice high with the first stirrings of fear. Water did not act this way. Ever.

"We _knew_ you were here," Water spat, shaking me. "That's why I came to get you. But I come and knock on all the doors like a goddamned lunatic serial killer, and you're nowhere to be found!"

"We went to breakfast!" I said heatedly, growing more worried by the second. Water was _not _like this, never so agitated. The serial killer line was the only way I was sure I was still talking to the same man.

"Paul," Seth put in, putting a hand on Water's shoulder. "Why don't you just tell us what's going on?"

Somehow, the voice of his old leader seemed to have a calming affect on Water, because his hand slid from my arm and he seemed to deflate a little. Old habits really do die hard.

But there was still something horribly wrong here. My eyes fully adjusted by now, I could clearly see that Water's face was a terrible ashen white, and his hands seemed to be shaking uncontrollably. He looked, I thought, like a man about to be sick right there on the street.

"Paul," I said, and pulled him to sit on the bench near the front door. It creaked ominously with our weight as we both sat on it. He really was shaking like a leaf, and beads of sweat were forming on his upper lip. "Is everyone alright? Did something happen with the girls?" I asked, feeling my chest tighten at the thought that something had gone awry at the lodging house in my absence.

But he was shaking his head, and I glanced at Seth, who was standing in front of us, looking wrong-footed and concerned.

Finally, Water looked up and cleared his throat, seeming to have to fight his body for the words. "It's not the girls," he said, his voice dry and rough, barely even working. "It's…there was an accident at the mill yesterday." He meant the steel mill, of course, Ben's mill.

I was immediately filled with visions of hot, molten steel burning men alive, which had happened before and would, of course, happen again, and felt like my airway was closing off.

"Is he burnt?" I asked, imagining Ben, his beautiful skin burned and bubbling.

"What?" Water said, looking confused, and then he shook his head. "No, it was…it wasn't like that." He stopped and cleared his throat, then exhaled as though bracing himself. "They had a finished beam on ropes and were loading it out, and one of the ropes snapped." Water paused, and I swear, my heart did too. I glanced at Seth, who was starting to look as worried as I felt, his eyes zeroed in on Water. "The beam swing to the side, and the end clipped Ben and pinned him to the wall."

I gasped, and my hands flew to cover my gaping mouth. "He…" I started, but Water cut me off.

"They got it off him, and he was alright." My heart stuttered to a beat again. "Upright and conscious anyway. He toughed it out and came home last night and said he thought maybe he had a bruised or broken rib or something, and he was sore. He went to bed early," Water continued, and my short-lived relief was replaced by the obvious fact that if it were good news, Water would not be here in a panic, looking like this.

"But he's not okay?" Seth said, his voice a bit weak as he voiced the question in my head.

Water shook his head. "This morning he didn't get up," he said, and his voice sounded a bit like he was underwater, thick and full. "He was all shaky and sweaty, and barely knew where he was, and when I checked him out, there was this huge bruise on his stomach," he touched his own, right at his navel, "And when I touched it, his skin felt hard, and he just…" his eyes looked far away, haunted, "_Screamed_. I ran to the lobby to call Bellevue and they sent their ambulance."

I sat there in shock for a moment, taking this in, and thanking God that Bellevue, in Kips Bay, Manhattan, wasn't too far from their apartment, and that they had ambulatory services. So many places did not.

"So they took him to the hospital, and then what?" Seth said, his voice determinedly calm, though I could see his jaw working.

"They wouldn't let me go with him, so I ran," Water said, standing. "When I got there they wouldn't tell me anything, but I overheard them talking, and they said…they said he…" here his voice cracked, and suddenly I felt my world go a little lopsided. I fought to keep it upright, and stood as well, a little unsteady.

"They said what?" Seth pressed, grasping my arm.

Water looked off to the side and let out a moan, high-pitched and helpless. "He's been bleeding in his gut for almost a day now. It's too late for them to do anything."

I just stared at him, my mind refusing to comprehend these words, these crazy, nonsensical words.

"Is he alive?" Seth demanded, his voice hard.

"Yes!" Water half-yelled. "That's why we have to go. You have to be there," he said to me, and I just looked at him, trying to catch up.

"What are you saying?" I said finally, my voice nearly failing me.

Water looked outraged. "I'm saying _Ben is fucking dying_, and you have to go to him, Lydia! Jesus!"

"Hey, come on, easy," Seth said, laying a steadying hand on Water's shoulder. Water, to his credit, did not shake him off, but his expression didn't soften, either.

I couldn't form a single word, but suddenly, I was running, my feet carrying me at a breakneck speed to the trolley stop. We were clattering down the road toward the bridge before my mind caught up with what my body had already acted upon.

Dying.

Dying. Ben was dying.

It didn't make sense, it didn't have any meaning. It _couldn't_ have any meaning because it was impossible. Men like Ben do not die. Men like Ben, they _can't_ die, otherwise what the hell is even the point?

I don't remember the ride to the hospital, only that we changed trolleys at least once, and I ran when I wasn't riding. I honestly hadn't even been aware that I knew how to get there, but apparently, the spying of my youth had given me a deep-seated knowledge of Manhattan's geography, for suddenly, I was flinging open the doors and following signs to what I hoped was the right ward.

I burst, panting, through double doors and found myself in a large waiting room, one filled with familiar faces. I looked around, and felt, in my head, that every eye on me was accusing, angry, blaming.

Moments later, Water and Seth came tumbling through the doors, both of them clutching stitches in their sides and gasping for air, winded from having chased after me.

I didn't speak to any of my friends, but marched to the desk in the middle of the room, where a white-uniformed nurse in what looked to be her mid-thirties was bent over a ledger, scribbling.

"Benjamin Kolovos, please," I said loudly, and she looked up at me with a bland expression.

"Are you family?" she asked, her New York accent thick, her voice slightly annoyed already.

"I…" I honestly didn't know how to answer that.

"If you're not family, I can't let you see him or give you any information," the nurse said, not meeting my eye, sounding as though she gave this spiel every day.

"But I—" I began, but she gave me a quelling look, and I, feeling cowed, took a step back.

"Who's the doctor on the case?" Seth piped up, coming to stand beside me. The nurse visibly brightened as she looked him over.

"Well, that would be Doctor Monroe," she said, simpering slightly, and my palms itched with the impulse to slap this smug, self-important woman.

"Get him," Seth said, and his voice was an order, nonnegotiable, and this woman, somehow sensing this, merely nodded and walked away.

I turned around and looked over the waiting group. Jack, who was clearly still in town, stood. "How'd you do that?" he asked Seth, his face pale. "We've been asking that bitch to get the doctor for an hour and she wouldn't move."

"We started flying-tackling all the doctors we saw," Blink put in, giving a wan smile.

Seth shrugged. "You can't leave room for them to say no," he said simply, and I understood more completely than ever how he had become Brooklyn's leader, how he had become such a young foreman on his farm.

Water sank into a chair next to Mugger, who slid her arm around him and touched his cheek with her hand. I watched this with a detached air, noting vaguely that they really did love each other, for all their messing about.

We all stood or sat there for long moments, looking at each other. Dave, Sprint, Panic, Mush, Jack, Water, Mugger, Lady, Angel, Blink, Skittery, Race. Me. Seth.

Brandy and his wife, and all the others, had left the morning after Christmas, were home with no idea what they were missing.

"_How can this be happening?_" Mush burst out, standing so suddenly that his chair smacked into the wall behind it with a crack. Panic stood and put her arms around him, and he tucked his face into her neck.

I didn't feel a thing. I surveyed everything that was going on as though I were watching it from afar. I knew, deep down, that my lack of emotion was a defense mechanism, that if my brain allowed my heart to feel its emotions at full force, it would probably break, splinter, bleed.

Within minutes, the nurse came squeaking back down the hall, followed by a young—surprisingly young—doctor, a slight, tall man with a pleasant, kind face and light brown hair and eyes.

"I'm Doctor Monroe," he said, going automatically to Seth, who shook his hand and gestured to me, giving me my opening.

"Where is he?" I asked. "What's happening? Why can't we see him?" I had so much more to ask, but I forced myself to clamp my mouth shut and wait.

"I'm very sorry, Miss…"

"Bielecki," I said automatically. "Lydia Bielecki."

The doctor gave me a strange look I couldn't quite fathom before continuing. "Well, Miss Bielecki, I'm afraid I can't release any information to non-family," he said, and I could tell by the way his eyes were crinkling with sympathy that he didn't like this policy any more than we did.

"I told her that already, Doctor," the nurse supplied, shooting me a look.

"Go away." I said, knowing I sounded like a child and unable to help it. I ignored her indignant face and turned back to the doctor. "Please, Doctor," I said, and reached out to touch his wrist. "You can't keep him in there alone."

The doctor looked down at my cold fingers on his skin, then back at my face. He took a deep breath and turned his gaze to the entire group, which had stood as one and was now, as a whole, surrounding him.

He seemed to waver, and Dave, ever the wordsmith, finally spoke up. "Doc, do you remember that Children's Crusade a few years back?"

I almost broke my neck turning to stare at him. _This_ was his brilliant plan to get information?

Doctor Monroe looked perplexed. "The what?"

"Children's Crusade," Dave repeated. "Started with the newsies and traveled to most of the working kids in the City? A big strike?"

The doctor's face jolted with recognition. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "I do remember that."

"That was us," Dave said flatly, and the doctor turned wide eyes to all of us in turn. "We started that. We were the first newsies. Ben is one of us. He's one of us, and we _are_ his family."

I felt myself starting to crack apart, felt my resolve and my strength fading quickly, but I also felt a rush of affection for Dave, who had started on the periphery of the newsies and had, somehow, became a part of us.

And at the look of indecision on the doctor's face, I could have kissed them both. "Please," I said again, turning all faces to me. "You can't let him…" I choked on the words, and shut my eyes, inhaling deeply. I opened my eyes and focused on the doctor, making my face and voice firm: _no room for no_—"You can't let him die alone."

The doctor and I sized each other up for a moment, then he nodded. "Mr. Kolovos came to us with extensive internal bleeding in the abdomen. He had been bleeding for nearly twenty hours by the time he was brought in, and the rigidity of the abdomen and the pain he was experiencing suggested pretty severe bleeding that wasn't stopping. He's in the late stages of…" for the first time the good doctor faltered.

"Dying. You're saying he's dying," I said, and was shocked at how hard and strong my voice was.

"Yes," he said, sounding apologetic. "We all feel that the stress of any kind of surgery in this late stage would surely kill him before we could stop any of the bleeding."

I merely stood there and breathed for a long moment, looking off to the side, my eyes unfocused. "How much time does he have?" I asked finally, my voice a whisper.

Doctor Monroe gave a tiny shrug. "He's tough. He's lasted a lot longer than I would have expected someone with his injuries to make it. I'd say a couple…" he paused, and I expected him to say days, but then, "hours."

Hours.

A shudder ran up my spine, and I felt my body curve in on itself, around my heart, protectively. Ben—beautiful, stunning Ben.

Dead in hours.

There was something—grief, horror, disbelief—blocking my throat, making it impossible for me to breathe, let alone speak, and Seth, putting a staying, steadying hand on the small of my back, stepped closer to the doctor and, his eyes clear and firm, said, "Please, Doc, you have to let us go in. We have to see him."

"All of you?" Monroe said skeptically, looking around at our large group. Everyone looked as wrecked and tense as I felt.

"We'll go in ones and twos," Dave put in, stepping forward, his voice steady, sane.

The doctor looked around, seeming to weigh his options. Dave had said the magic words before, I realized. We were, as he had reminded the doctor, crusaders. More than that, we were children of the streets. What would we do, exactly, if he refused our request?

Finally, Doctor Monroe nodded. "One and twos," he repeated firmly. "Only a few minutes each," he cautioned.

He turned to go, but before he had gotten two steps away he turned back and stepped close to me, leaning in so only I, and Seth, who was still at my side, could hear. "Miss, I suggest you go last. He's been asking for you."

My heart seized, and I felt, for the first time, my eyes begin to well. "He has?" I whispered, and Seth's hand pressed harder at my back.

"Yes. I think he'll want you to be with him when—" he cleared his throat and stepped back. "Well," he said, and I nodded.

So although every instinct in my body was fighting to go first, to run down the hall and into the room Doctor Monroe had indicated, I hung back. Water and Mugger went first, and came back looking incredibly shaken and paper white.

Water headed straight for the chair by the window and didn't quite make it before he sank to his knees on the hard floor, Mugger kneeling next to him, her vivid red hair glinting in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows as she leaned her forehead to his temple, speaking quietly to him, her tone soothing.

Such a beautiful day. It seemed indecent, somehow.

Slowly but surely, everyone took their turn, and everyone looked ravaged when they came back. The hushed chatter fell into silence, everyone who had been in to see Ben too traumatized to speak.

Seth went right before me, looking nervous but determined. He was gone a long time, not mere minutes like the others, but over twenty, according to the clock I was obsessively checking.

I was watching the hallway from my tucked-away position at the wall of the waiting room when Seth exited the ward. Under the impression he couldn't be seen, he turned around and braced himself on the wall, his hands over his hanging head. I could see, even from this distance, his ribs expanding as he drew in great gasps of air. His splayed hands contracted into fists on the wall, and his body seemed to stretch, then contract, with sorrow.

A few more breaths, and he straightened, looking up and meeting my eye. He didn't look away, but stared at me for moments during which I wondered what Ben had said to him, whether Ben was capable of saying anything.

Seth walked over to me, not touching me, but standing close enough so that I could feel his heat. "It's time," was all he said, and I nodded, feeling the muscles in my neck tightening painfully, my jaw aching as I struggled to stay upright.

The walk down the hall felt like it took ages, like I was traveling over a great distance, and I suppose, in a way, I was. This room would be the place where I would go from the Before and into the After.

Ben would die in this room, and I would be there. And my world would forever be split into the Before, where he was mine, and the After, where he didn't exist.

I stood in the doorway, a tad surprised to find that Ben's was not the only bed. The circular ward held at least 11 other beds, only a few of which were occupied. Curtains around each bed granted a small modicum of privacy.

My eyes were pulled instinctively to the third bed on the left. I would recognize those shiny black curls anywhere.

I approached the bed, and felt my entire body jolt as though I had been doused in icy water. My footsteps faltered, and I shuddered to a stop a few feet from him, staring down at him in absolute terror.

He lay in the bed, on his back, and his eyes, though open, looked unspeakably tired. His face was pale under his dark skin, and he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

He turned his head slowly to look at me, and a tiny, sad smile played on his full lips. "There she is," he managed, and the sound of his voice, so exhausted, so pain-filled, broke me.

"_Oh, God_," I moaned, and lurched forward to support myself on the beam at the foot of his bed. I didn't know whether I was about to cry or throw up, so I clenched my teeth together.

Cry. I was definitely going to cry. A sob worked its way up my throat and catapulted out of my mouth, sharp in the hushed ward. I felt my knees giving out, and tensed my body to ward it off, fighting with all my strength to at least stay on my feet.

I took in deep breaths, determined to calm myself down, to at least be coherent.

I had to, at the very least, sit in the chair by his bed.

I straightened and, with more effort than I have ever expended on anything in my life, walked to the chair and sat, scooting it forward and tucking my feet under the chair to wedge myself in as close as possible.

Ben was watching me, just looking at me with sad, drained eyes, his head lolling on the pillow, and once I was settled, he held out a hand, and I took it in both of mine as though he were a life raft.

_He was_ my life raft, I realized. He kept me afloat, kept me moving. He had, in some way, saved me in the last three years.

I curled my hands around his, feeling how cold they were, as though the life were ebbing out of his extremities already.

I looked into his eyes, and wanted nothing more than to climb inside him, so stay within him forever, if only to not have to be without him.

"I didn't think when I said, 'If it were me, I would wanna make it right before I died,' that it_ would_ be me," he said finally, his voice shaky with pain and exertion despite his attempt to make it lighthearted.

I squeezed his hand tighter and kept my eyes on his, drinking him in, trying, in vain, to fill myself with enough of his face to last me forever.

"I am so, so sorry," I whispered, my voice high and cracking even at such a low volume. "I never should have hurt you."

He looked unmoved, merely gazed at me, as though he, too, were tying to look his fill. "I love you," he said simply. "That's not such a bad thing, in the end."

I leaned forward, the side of the bed frame digging into my hip bones, and opened his hand. I pressed my lips to his palm, his fingers, his wrist, and when I looked up, he had turned his head to stare at the ceiling, and, as I watched, a tear leaked from the corner of his eye to join the sweat at his temple.

I had to say it. I couldn't let him go without telling him. "I love you," I said, my voice thick with tears that were finally flowing freely. "I know I don't get things right most of the time, and I know I hurt you, and I know there are…complications," I continued, fighting to at least make my words comprehensible through all the crying. "But I really, truly love you. You're…" It was sappy. It was _sickeningly_ sappy. But I said it anyway, because, sappy or not, it was true, and he needed to know: "You're the most beautiful thing in my entire world."

He shut his eyes, thick tears flowing into the hair at his temples, then opened them and turned his head to me. "We can't talk about this. If there was more time, we could, but…I don't wanna waste time. I love you. That's it."

I nodded, playing with his hands, and he watched me for a moment, his face twisting in pain.

"I'm scared," he whispered, his voice gruff, and hearing such simple, small, childlike words in his deep, honeyed voice made my entire body feel like it was breaking.

A sob left my mouth and I pressed my lips again to his palm. "I'm scared, too," I said.

"Come here," he said, and pulled weakly at my hands. I stood, wedged between my chair and the bed, and it took me a moment to realize that he wanted to get in the bed.

I looked around, then released him to step back and pull the curtain closed around us, shutting out the rest of the ward.

I slid into the bed next to him, lying on my right side, facing his left. He put his right arm slowly across his body, groaning softly. "Help," he said, and I pulled his arm toward me.

Slowly, jerkily, he turned onto his side, and his unbuttoned shirt fell open to reveal a dark, sinister reddish-purple bruise on his firm stomach: evidence, I knew, of the severity of the bleeding in his abdomen. As he turned, the effort made him cry out sharply in pain, and by the time he was on his side and facing me, his tears were from agony, not sadness.

I scooted closer to him, guiding his arm under my neck as he, eyes closed, placed the other on my ribcage. I put both my hands on the sides of his face and held them there while he fought for breath. He began coughing, his eyes squeezed shut, and the combination of his cries of pain and the coughing made me feel helpless.

His hand squeezed the fabric at my ribs, and drops of blood appeared on his lips. Finally, he got his failing body under control, and opened his eyes. His lips were smeared with blood, and I wiped it away with my fingers. He licked his reddened teeth until they shone white again and pressed his cheek into my hand.

He had just opened his mouth with the curtain flung open and the nurse, the one I wanted to murder, was standing there. "_What in the world_ do you think you're doing?" she cried, looking at us as though we were consummating it for the whole world. "You have to leave," she said to me, moving forward. "This is unacceptable."

Ben didn't even turn his head. "Go," he said tiredly. "I'm trying to die here, you know."

I almost laughed, I swear. I don't know how or why, but my body shook a little with internal laughter.

"She cannot be in there with you!" The nurse exclaimed, now behind me, and Ben finally looked up at her.

"Why not? What's it gonna do—kill me?"

This time, I did laugh a little, just a tiny note of amusement that could have been mistaken for an exhale if you didn't know me. But Ben did, and he looked down at me with an almost-imperceptible smile.

"Just go," he said again, and looked back at the nurse with the same exact expression Seth had used so effectively on her earlier, and to my immense surprise, she left. With a huff and stomping, but still.

Ben tightened his hand at my ribs and looked at me for a long moment, his eyes flicking back and forth, up and down, as though he were trying to memorize me. I was, admittedly, doing the same thing.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" I asked, my voice small, little girlish, and I hated myself for it, but couldn't help it. I was so unfathomably terrified.

He rubbed his hand down my side and didn't answer, and I knew he was. I stroked his cheek with my hand, running my fingers over his brow, like a mother soothing her baby, and he shut his eyes at my touch.

He exhaled in a combined note of physical and emotional pain as fat, glistening tears ran from under his eyelashes, sticking them together.

"Shhh," I soothed lifting his chin and stretching my body to press my lips to his. His mouth responded to mine, and I could taste blood in his as he kissed me with as much fierceness as he could muster.

We pulled back at the same time, both of us in tears, and I hooked my hands under his ears, keeping our foreheads together.

"Don't leave me," he whispered, sounding like a little boy, and I shook my head.

"I'm right here," I whispered, clutching at him, feeling the sweat in his hair, and every single place on my body that was touching his.

I'll never know how long we laid there, only that he opened his wet eyes to look at me, and kissed me slowly, pulling away and leaving his blood on my lips, which I licked away with my tongue, not caring or even really noticing.

He moved his arm and tucked it against my chest, taking my hair and running it through his fingers. His breathing slowly became shallow, and his hands started to shake, all strength finally failing him.

He let his hand slide down to my chest, and I guided it around my body as he watched me with glazing eyes. I framed his face with my hands and pressed my forehead to his once again before snuggling close to him.

"I love you," he said again, his voice a bit slurred, and I ran my fingers over the soft hair of his long eyebrows, tracing his heart-stopping face.

"I love you too," I said, my voice creaky, cracked, and as I watched, his eyes fluttered once, twice. He opened them with a supreme, last-ditch effort, and, with a burst of strength, yanked me to him so that my body—strong, healthy—was pressed against his own dying one. He held my gaze for a moment, his eyes clearing briefly, and then his lids fluttered again—once, twice, three times—and then closed.

As he lost consciousness, I felt myself—my soul, maybe, if you believe in that—reaching for him, trying to escape into him, to somehow save him.

I listened to him breathe, his breath sounds coming shallower and more erratic until finally, they stopped.

He was still. _I_ was still, staring at him.

It was silent in the ward for a brief moment, as though the world had stopped turning—an unnatural hush.

Benjamin "Bourbon" Kolovos, the man who had loved me honestly, who had made me love him, who was so beautiful I almost couldn't stand it, was dead.

Dead.

The word reverberated in my head a few times.

And then I started screaming.

AN: FML. –sobs-


	16. Chapter 14

I wasn't entirely sure where I was, only that I was lying on a soft surface, and warm, almost hot arms were around me, a body pressed to mine. I could hear slow, even breathing, and for a brief, shining moment, I wondered if the whole thing had been a terrible, terrifying dream, and perhaps, when I opened my heavy eyes, the body next to mine would be Ben's.

Yes, that was it, I thought, squeezing my eyes with a wish. I would open my eyes and find Ben in bed next to me. I would hold him and tell him of the horrifying dream I'd had, tell him how it had felt to really, truly, irrevocably lose him.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark but for a single candle, and though a glance around confirmed that I was indeed in Ben's room, nestled in his bed, the body next to me was Seth's. I experienced a sinking sensation in my stomach, felt my heart grow heavy.

It was true, then. All of it. It had not been a nightmare, after all. The only way Seth and I would be sleeping here in Ben's bed would be for all of it to have really happened.

I sat up, feeling as though my every muscle weighed a thousand pounds, my joints creaking.

Seth, his body noticing my sudden absence, shifted in sleep, rolling over and curling into himself, his face pinching in sleep. I watched him for a moment, listening to his sure, steady breathing, taking in the angles and planes of his face in the candlelight. I touched his cheek lightly, a whisper, to convince myself that I had not, at least, lost them both.

I slid out of the bed, my movements barely making a rustle, and was surprised to look down and find myself wearing a set of Ben's clothes—soft power blue-striped flannel pajama bottoms and one of his old castoff undershirts from his scrawny preteen years. My feet were bare and cold on the hardwood floor as I padded out into the hall.

I passed Water's slightly-open door and peeked in, saw him curled around Mugger, fast asleep. I gazed at them for a moment, wistful, then continued on down the hall, expecting to find the spare room—the one Seth had slept in his first night here—empty.

But Mush was there, in the bed with Panic, and in the living room, Skittery was sprawled on a pile of blankets on the couch. Angel was nowhere to be found, and I assumed that she had either gone on home, or, more likely, spent the night in Queens to cover mine and Panic's absences.

How had I gotten here? I wondered, looking over the sleeping form of Skittery in the darkened room.

I remembered I had been screaming, but had not known, at first, that the screaming was indeed coming from me. It seemed to come from without, the world screaming in outrage.

I vaguely remembered Seth flying into the room, swooping down to pick me up. I had clung to what had moments before been Ben, hysterical and nonsensical.

The rest of it, I couldn't remember, not clearly. They must have decided to bring me here. In bits and pieces, I remembered a warm sponge bath, soft hands—Panic's—smoothing back my hair as I sat between her legs, sobbing. Dressing. Lying down in Ben's still-mussed bed.

It came back to me, standing there in the middle of the night. I had been crying, alone in Ben's room—but…not alone? No, not alone. Seth had stood in the doorway, watching over me, but I had not let him come to me, had not allowed him to join me in another man's bed—Ben's bed—to comfort me.

I must have fallen asleep, exhausted, and when I did, I have no doubt Seth immediately came to me, stretching out beside me.

Fighting against another onslaught of tears, I turned and went to the kitchen, where I busied myself with making a pot of coffee. Standing over the stove, I felt the aroma envelop me, and breathed in deeply, already feeling my raging headache beginning to subside. I poured myself a large cup and sat at the table, my hands wrapped around the hot pottery for warmth and comfort.

I had only taken one sip when Skittery appeared in the doorway, his curls mussed and sticking up wildly. His face was slightly puffy, his eyes sunken in his face, and he didn't say a word before he poured himself his own cup of coffee and sat next to me at the table.

"What time is it?" I said, the first words I had spoken, at least in a coherent voice, since Ben had died.

Skittery leaned back and dug his watch out of his pocket, glancing at it. "Four-twelve," he said, and his voice was husky with sleep.

"You didn't have to come in here, you know," I said, feeling bad that I had woken him, that he had felt obligated to check on me.

He shrugged, swallowing a deep mouthful of coffee. "I wasn't really sleeping anyway," he said, looking out the window at the dark pre-morning. "I saw you come in, and I didn't want to scare you. But then you made coffee, so I figured, what the hell, awake with caffeine is better than awake without it."

I tried to smile. Normally, I would have at least chuckled. Now, though, all I could muster was a slight lift of the side of my mouth and an exhale.

"I just…" I began, and trailed off, toying with my cup, running my fingers along its edge. Skittery said nothing, just watched me carefully, waiting. "I can't believe this," I managed finally, my voice cracking, and then, all the sudden, I was crying again, quietly.

Skittery's chair screeched as he stood, moved my hands away from the cup, and picked me up, one arm under my knees and the other at my back. He switched spots with me, sitting in the chair with me in his lap, and I laid my head on his shoulder, my hands clutching at the fabric on his chest.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispered in my ear, and I shook my head, feeling indignant, and raised up to look at him, my voice strong despite the tears on my face and the ache in my chest.

"How can you say that?" I demanded, my voice louder than was probably wise. "This is not okay!"

Skittery swiped his thumb under my eye, clearing away the tears on my face. When he spoke, his voice was calm. "I didn't say it _was_. What just happened is never gonna be okay. But _you _will be." He took my wrists in his hands and looked me dead in the eye. "We've all done this before," he reminded me, telling me without putting it into words that death was a part of all of us. "We'll all be a little different, but surviving is what we do."

I looked into his face, searching those wise eyes for answers, and then leaned back into his chest. "How'd you get so smart?" I asked, and I felt his body shake a little as he laughed silently.

"Oh, please. I could've been the face of our revolution if I weren't so cynical."

I considered this. "I don't think you're cynical," I said finally.

"Well, you might be the only one," he answered, then continued before I could respond, "Lydia, I'm gonna tell you right now that no matter what anyone says, I know you love—loved—Ben. I know how much you cared about him."

I sat up again, looked at his expression, then climbed off his lap to sit in the chair he had vacated. "What do you mean, 'no matter what anyone says?'" I asked, feeling wary, and not at all up to dealing with this, not when what I most wanted to do was climb into a hole and hide.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, making it, if possible, even messier than before. "Just something Jack said," he began, looking a little guilty. "Normally I wouldn't sell him out, but…" he shrugged a little, "Alliances change, I guess."

"And you're, what, on my team now?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

Skittery didn't smile or hesitate. "Yeah, I am," he said, and I felt so grateful to him, to this wonderful man who had become one of my closest friends, a stand-in for the brother I had never gotten, that I felt myself getting weepy again.

"What'd he say?" I said, clearing my throat against crying.

"Just something about how he didn't know why you were 'acting' so heartbroken when everyone knew you had just spent the night with Seth," he said, looking guilty for saying anything, and I felt a hot rush of shame and embarrassment.

I started to say something, faltered, and fell silent. What was there to say, really? Jack and I had never been close—I had always found him a bit stupid, really, and after the strike, any chance of us becoming friends had vanished when he took off for the West. We had him for Christmas, yes, but that was mostly because we had _all_ the Manhattan boys there.

But the fact remained that he had a point.

"Look at me," Skittery said firmly, and I looked up to find his eyes blazing. "We all set him straight fucking quick as hell," he said, and looked angry at the very memory. "It's none of his business what was going on between you, Seth, and Ben," he continued, "All anyone needs to know is that you and Ben were close—that you were both one of the most important people in each other's lives. The other shit, it doesn't matter. The rest of us know you love him. We know how much you care." He looked away for a second, seemingly overwhelmed with the entire situation. "All that matters is that he wanted you there, and you were."

I stared at him for a few moments as his face twisted, and he looked down. I was reminded, again, that he had lost someone too, lost one of his closet friends.

I stood and sat on his knee, pulling him to me, cuddling his head to my shoulder, and we were sitting that way when Water walked in, rubbing his eyes.

He jerked at the sight of us, then scowled. "Moving onto someone else already?" he said venomously, and I stood, my heart pounding. I opened my mouth to let him have it, but stopped.

_His best friend is dead. _

Instead, I turned and poured him a cup of coffee while Skittery watched silently, his eyes wary, ready to step in at any moment, handing the mug to Water while looking directly in his angry face. He took it reluctantly. I looked him over. His wide, open, handsome face was lined with red pillow marks, and his eyes looked much like mine, I imagine—red, somehow puffy and shrunken at the same time.

He took a self-conscious sip and I reached out, took the cup from his hand, and set it on the table. "What?" he said, folding his arms, all his easygoing humor vanished.

I shook my head. "I know you hate me right now," I said, and he rolled his eyes, tensing his shoulders. "You're probably thinking that if Ben hadn't been so upset about me, that he would have been paying more attention, and that beam never would have hit him."

Water's eyes narrowed. "That's exactly what I'm thinking, actually," he said coldly, and I did not wince.

"That's exactly what I'm thinking, too," I said softly, and my eyes filled, infuriatingly, yet again. "I'm thinking this is all my fault, that if it weren't for me, Ben would be here right now. I'm thinking that I as good as killed him. I'm thinking—" I faltered, and Water's face softened just slightly. "I'm thinking you _should _hate me," I said waveringly, and blinked a tear onto the floor. "But trust me when I say it'll never be as much as _I _hate me."

I looked down, closing my eyes to feel countless tears spilling onto my face. "See what you did?" Skittery said furiously, and I heard him move to approach me, but Water got there first.

His arms were around me before I could raise my head, and as a result, the top of my head was pressed into his chest. I eased my neck upward and stepped forward into his embrace, putting my arms around his back and holding him tightly, knowing that he needed comfort as much as I did.

"Fuck," he breathed, his breath ruffling my hair. "I'm—I'm sorry, Lydia," he said softly. "I'm just so…"

I squeezed him. "I know," I said, rubbing my hands on his back. We stayed like that for a while longer, until Skittery scraped back his chair.

"Fuck this, I need a hug, too," he said, his voice choked, half with laughter, half with tears, and then his long arms were around both of us, and my face pressed more firmly into Water's chest as Skittery's chest pushed into my back. One of Water's hands slipped out from between our bodies to clutch at Skittery's shoulder.

"Uh. Okay…"

At a new voice, we all broke apart like shrapnel, jumping to spin toward the door. Mush and Panic, sleep-mussed, stood in the door to the kitchen, Mugger behind them. They were all staring at the three of us, and Mush opened his eyes wide and leaned his head back slightly, his face saying, "You people are weird."

And, miraculously, we all started laughing.

Before we knew it, we were howling with laughter and hugging one another, countless arms embracing, and then, before I could stop myself, I stopped laughing and started crying.

I buried my face in my hands, and, my face lowered to my chest, could smell Ben's scent on my shirt. The scent, intensified by my own memories, made me gasp as a violent shudder raced down my spine.

"Get Seth," I heard Panic say, her voice tight, and, within seconds, I was yet again being picked up (when did I become the kind of girl who had to be carried?).

Seth laid me back on Ben's bed, and this time, didn't listen when I tried to motion for him to go.

"Stop," he ordered, pushing my hands away, and laid down next to me, pulling me into him. The scent of him mingled with the scent of Ben that was everywhere—my clothes, the sheets—and the combination made me feel like I was being strangled.

I could feel my breathing beginning to come in gasps, and Seth, never missing a thing, put his hands on either side of my face. "Look at me," he said, and my eyes fluttered open. "Look at me and focus. Watch me breathe," he said, and I did, letting the rhythm of his breaths take over my body.

Within moments, I had calmed, and every ounce of adrenalin I had been subsisting on all morning vanished. I laid my head on the pillow, my cheek cradled in Seth's hand, and looked at him through hazy vision.

He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it with a snap and a sigh. "What?" I asked, feeling myself fading into sleep.

He shook his head. "Not now," he whispered. "Just close your eyes."

And so I did.

When I woke again, I no longer felt raw and emotional. I felt numb with grief—so overwhelmed I had gone full circle and wound up completely underwhelmed. I moved calmly into the apartment's tiny bathroom to clean myself from head to toe, slipping on the waiting clothes, which I could only guess one of the girls had brought me as I slept.

Seth's watch, on the side of the sink, said that it was nine in the morning on December 30. Ben had died on the 28th. Somehow, impossibly, I had been asleep—more like comatose—for over 24 hours. I looked down at my clothes for the first time, and realized I was in a brand new black dress—solid, slim, simple—with a wide black and gold belt about my waist.

Black.

I was wearing black. I almost never wore black. I had never seen these clothes before. If I was wearing brand-new black clothes, it could only mean one thing. Today, we would bury Ben, put his body, all that remained of the man we had known, into the ground.

I was standing stock-still in the hall when Lady and Angel walked through the front door, their arms full of bags of groceries and what I knew to be their arsenal of cosmetics and hair products.

The next hour was full of creams, powders and pastes as they painted color onto my pale skin and coaxed my eyes out of their shells. Hot curling irons pulled from coals forced my hair into curls, and pins secured them off my face. Angel pinned my own black funeral hat to my head, and, wordlessly, we walked to the cemetery.

Seth met us at the gate, in the same clothes he had worn only days before to his mother's funeral. He looked pale and exhausted, whereas I knew I looked radiant, not because I felt that way, but because I had had nothing short of magic performed upon me in the form of two fairy Godmothers.

Angel and Lady walked ahead, heading toward the large—surprisingly large—group gathered in the new section of the grounds.

"You didn't have to let me sleep so long," I said finally, the first words I had spoken in over a day.

Seth shrugged. "You needed it. _I_ needed it. I slept until three this morning," he said, and I felt at once comforted and uncomfortable with the fact that we had slept together in Ben's bed for so long.

I nodded, looking over to the group. "Who are all these people?" I asked, just for something to say to fill the silence that was quickly becoming awkward.

"Everyone called—well—_every_one," he said, gesturing to the group. "All your girls are here, plus the Brooklyn newsies, and every Manhattan and Brooklyn newsy we came up with is here, too, at least the ones who could get here in time." He paused. "Ben's brother, Alex is here, too," he said, and pointed.

My heart seized. Ben and Alex, once they had reached adulthood, were practically twins. Alex was slightly shorter, stockier but no less well-muscled, but their skin, faces, and hair were nearly identical.

"Are you ready to go over?" Seth asked, and I, steeling myself and taking in a deep, supposedly calming breath, nodded.

We hadn't taken but one step before he took my arm gently, stopping me in my tracks. "What" I said softly, not meeting his eyes.

I don't know what was wrong with me. But being around Seth felt…wrong, somehow. I hadn't wanted to end up with him in this way. I hadn't ever expected that it would have been like this—that Ben would die so Seth and I could be together.

I know. That's insane. It's completely illogical. But somehow, it felt that way. And losing Ben…it was as though only in losing him had I realized how much I had loved him.

It was so cruel and wrong that he had to die for me to see that. But there it was.

And now, Seth…he felt…_we_ felt…

Well, I don't know. I was back to square-one with Seth, I felt. But that was impossible, after all we had been through in such a short time. And there was no one left for him to compete with—except a ghost.

Seth was watching me carefully, and when I finally looked up, I knew instantly that he was not unaware of my thoughts. Underneath his grief and sadness was the threat of another loss—me.

He shook his head and leaned in to press his lips to my cheek. They felt warm on my cold, exposed skin. Then he straightened. "Can we talk later?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically timid, and I nodded wordlessly.

Before I walked away, my hand shot out of its own accord to briefly grasp his, as though my body were reluctant to leave him. I did not have the time or emotional willpower to decipher that.

My mouth went dry as I entered the group, and I was touched by and grateful for all the hands that reached for me, all the lips that kissed my cheeks, but I resolutely made my way to the one man here I needed to see.

"Alex," I said, reaching him, and he turned. I stifled a gasp as I looked into his face. They were so much alike it was physically painful, and I could tell, by the way everyone around us was looking furtively at him, that I wasn't the only one who thought so.

It was as though you desperately didn't want to look, but couldn't force your eyes to look elsewhere.

"Lydia," he said, and stepped forward to embrace me. I had met him numerous times over the years, had had him over for dinner and parties whenever he was in town, had even, along with Water and Mugger, gone with Ben to visit him for a hilarious, laughing week that previous summer.

His body felt different—wider—than Ben's, but was no less firm, and where my face pressed to his neck, his skin felt the same. He smelled the same, some kind of familial, biological scent carried in the skin of brothers.

"I'm so sorry," we said, exactly at the same time, and looked at each other in mild surprise.

"I won't pretend that my loss is worse than yours," he said softly, and I felt my eyes fill, though I managed to blink the moisture away before it spilled over.

"He was your brother," I whispered, and Alex looked around at the grief-stricken group around him.

"He was your family, too," he said, putting his hands into the pockets of his heavy black coat. His eyes lit on something over my shoulder, and he gave small half-smile.

"Is that Spot Conlon?" he said, jutting his chin toward what I now knew was Seth. I could, now that I was aware of his presence, almost feel him behind me.

I didn't turn around. "Yes," I answered.

"Did he come back for this?" he asked, and waved a shaky hand at the coffin, which I had been studiously ignoring, and still could not bring myself to look at.

"No."

Alex arched a long eyebrow, glancing from me to Seth. "Oh," he said, and left it at that. I cringed inwardly, wanting to slink away, but Alex reached out and put an arm around me, pulling me close to murmur in my ear. "Ben—" his voice hitched on his brother's name. "Ben told me all about that," he said, so softly I had to strain to hear. "You be careful," he said, ever the older brother, and I nodded.

He released me as the priest approached, and I stepped back, letting Alex have the foreground. I felt a body appear next to me, and knew it was Seth, who did not speak but stood close, allowing me to stay silent, but unwilling to leave me here alone.

I felt nothing but grateful for that—his silence and his presence.

Another form appeared on my other side. Water, whose eyes were bloodshot. I could feel his body trembling beside me, and looked back to see Mugger less than a foot behind him, her eyes on him, watchful. She glanced over at me and gave me a tiny smile. I wondered, briefly, why she didn't move to stand next to him, but an inventory of the rest of the group answered my questions.

We stood, as a whole, in rows: Alex at the front, me, Seth, and Water behind him. Mugger, Angel, Lady, Panic, Sprint, Blink, Race, Jack (I felt a swoop of anger) Mush, Dave, a returned Brandy (sans wife), and Skittery behind us. Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies who had not been as close-knit as we had fallen in behind them, and the current newsies, plus men from the mill, come to pay their respects, stood at the back.

We were arranged, I realized, in order of importance, Alex, of course, at the forefront. That had been intentional, though the rest, I suspected, had merely been instinctual.

As the priest began to speak, I kept my gaze on Alex's back, watched with admiration at how straight and proud he stood, though his head wavered on his neck as his gaze flicked constantly to the casket at his feet.

I was still not looking in its direction, completely unwilling to lay my eyes on that wooden coffin within which Ben would be entombed forever.

Today, that coffin held the attention of everyone in attendance—whether we were looking at it or not. For years, we would come, lay flowers on his grave, try and convince ourselves that he was in a better place, that he could hear us when we spoke to him.

But one day, in this cemetery, many, many years from now, when we were all likewise gone and buried, the grave of Benjamin Kolovos would become just another grave accompanying an anonymous name. Those who passed it, on their way to more current, relevant graves would run their eyes over his name and know nothing about the man who lay buried under their feet, nor of the people who had mourned him.

They would not know that he was so handsome he could melt your skirt clean off. They would have no idea that his skin was, quite accurately, the color of bourbon. They would not know that he had been a newsboy, that he had been the staying, steadying right hand of one of the most influential leaders the newsboys had ever seen. They would not guess at the sound of his laugh, nor would they be interested in the color of his eyes, or the rasp of his hands. They would know nothing of his humor, his kindness, the goodness and charm that made everyone love him.

He, his story, his history, his legacy, would one day be lost.

The thought wrenched a sob out of my mouth, and I bowed my head. A split second passed before a hand found its way into both of mine—Seth on one side, Water on the other. I clung to them as though without them I would crumble—and most likely, I would have.

I didn't hear a word the priest said, and why did I need to? I knew all the important things about Ben already—nothing this man could say would tell me what I didn't already know. His words to describe Ben, a man he didn't know, could never surpass the things I remembered.

"_Let me court you," he had said, and I had laughed. But his eyes had not changed from their expression of utmost seriousness, and I had stared at him._

"_Are you serious?" I had said, and he had exhaled, frustrated. _

"_Can't you see I love you?" he asked, and I was not surprised. Of course I could see. _

"_Ben, please—" I had begun, but he held his fingers to my lips, effectively shushing me._

"_No," he said gently. "Don't tell me I don't know what I feel. And don't try and tell me at least a part of you doesn't love me, too."_

"_You can't 'court' me," I had said after a moment of stunned silence,, shaking my head, trying to keep everything light, carefree, simple—afraid to make our relationship more than it was._

_He had laughed, his teeth white and even, and kissed me softly, suddenly. A vague swoop had passed through my stomach at the feel of his lips. "I already am," he had said, and kissed me on the cheek, leaving without another word._

And then men were moving forward to lower the coffin into the waiting hole, and Alex had cupped a handful of dirt, letting it fall onto his brother.

He turned away, his face pinched, a tear trailing slowly, sluggishly in the cold, down his face. Our eyes met, and I stepped forward, my hands still in Seth's and Water's.

They threw their handfuls of dirt first, and then released me, stepping back. I crouched slowly, feeling frozen, and closed my hand around a cold handful of soft dirt.

I looked down at the casket for the first time, and stepped forward to stand at the edge of the hole, looking down at the gleaming surface that covered Ben's face.

I closed my eyes, turning my hand and letting the silky dirt slip through my fingers. "You were right," I whispered. I opened my wet eyes, my vision blurred with tears that burned. "I did love you," The final grains of dirt hit the wood. "I loved you," I repeated, and turned away.

Alex, Ben's brother, the last remaining link to Ben we all had, waited a few feet away, next to a nauseous-looking Seth and a red-faced, wet-eyed Water, and offered me his arm. I took it, and, slowly, our steps unsure, we led the way back to the home that had been Ben's.


	17. Chapter 15

Hours later, we were down the bare bones of our group: the closest of us, plus Alex. Jack, who was staying with Dave, was still there, but I was avoiding him like he was contagious, slipping away whenever he came near.

I wasn't sure, really, whether I was angry and indignant or just plain shamed.

After one such Jack-induced relocation, I found myself sitting next to Alex and Seth, who were reminiscing about their days as the leaders of Brooklyn.

"I used to wonder all the time why I was picked and not Ben," Seth said suddenly, and I stared at him, certain he had never shared this little tidbit with anyone. He shook his head. "I mean, he was the brother of a former leader," he inclined his head to Alex, "And he was…" he sighed, looking around the apartment as if Ben's former home would help him along. "He was so level, and smart. I can't even tell you how many times I would have fucked up if he hadn't stopped me and talked me down from the ledge first."

I nodded, knowing exactly how he had felt, and wondering why neither of us had ever realized we shared the same insecurities. "I felt that way about myself," I said softly. "I always thought it should have been Panic." I looked over at her, busying herself with clearing away the glasses and plates from the departed mourners. "She's so steady, and wise, and calm. I was constantly losing my shit and having to be taken down a few levels by her."

Alex studied me for a moment before speaking. "First off, Lydia, you were chosen because physically, you're what the Queens leader stood for." I blushed, feeling at once complimented and slighted, but Alex went on hastily. "But if beautiful was all Scots were looking for, she could have picked any of a big number of girls." He looked me full in the face. "I always thought being the leader of Queens took a lot of grit and courage, especially that first time."

Seth chuckled. "She had grit, that's for sure," he said, and I couldn't help but toss him a small smile.

Alex shrugged. "I really liked the girl I was with," he said, and his eyes went a little glazed with memory.

"Script?" I said, remembering too the girl who had been leader before Scots. She had been a black-haired, pale-skinned girl with great, doe-like eyes and the ability to muster enough venom to make you want to curl up and die. "You_ liked_ her?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow. I distinctly remembered being terrified of Script.

Alex chuckled softly. "She was hard. I think she had to be. But sometimes, I don't know…" he gestured a little helplessly, and Seth and I both nodded. We knew what it was like to be untouchable and frigid, while underneath, you were only human. "I liked her," he repeated. "But she always hated me on principle."

"I tried that," I said without thinking, then turned my face away from Seth before he could see my cheeks begin to blaze with heat. I could feel him watching me, but Alex moved on without comment.

"I don't think I ever let Ben live down the fact that he didn't become leader," he said, his voice full of the twinge of regret.

I didn't know what to say to that, since as far as I knew, Alex's admission was true. The brothers had been close, sure, but always between them was the tension of Alex's disappointment.

I spoke without really meaning to, words that had been in my head for years. "Seth was the best choice for a leader," I said, and Seth's neck damn near snapped off, he turned his head from Alex to me so quickly. "Brooklyn—and the rest of New York, once the strike started—needed a leader on its side who would be passionate, and could intimidate people. They needed someone cool and confident who would swagger in and save the day."

"You make me sound like some kinda mascot," Seth said, sounding wry and a little insulted.

"You kind of _were_," I replied, and hurried on when he recoiled slightly. "I don't mean in an amusing sort of way. I mean…" I sighed, searching for the right words. "We needed you. We needed someone who could sit back for just the right amount of time to let Manhattan scramble. You forced them to show everyone else that they were serious. Ben and I tried to make you help them right away, remember?" I said, and Seth nodded, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Manhattan needed a push. And then, when everyone was involved, we needed someone who would be a cynic. You always held out the longest on any kind of decision, and when you finally agreed, it made every other doubter out there agree, too." I finally looked at him, feeling like I needed to let him know how much he had been admired, looked up to. "You made people nervous, but they trusted your judgment. They knew that when Spot Conlon backed something, it was safe for them to do it, too."

Seth looked touched, but still doubtful. "Ben could have done all that," he said insisted, but I shook my head.

"No. I'm not saying that Ben wouldn't have been a great leader, because he would have been. But _you_ were the perfect leader for _that time_. We needed fire and rage, and you gave us that. Ben was the perfect right-hand to calm you down when you went too far." I considered my own words for a moment. "We needed you, and you needed Ben."

We all sat in silence for a few moments, thinking again of what we'd lost, and a lump rose in my throat. I cleared it shakily, vocal chords trembling, and Alex, across from me, looked up with his own dark eyes swimming, and reached out to grip my elbow, steadying us both.

Everything I had said was true. But what about now? Ben had been the force that had kept all of us stable. So what now?

I looked around our group and wondered if it were possible that we would drift apart. Panic and I were clearly glued together for life, which meant Mush, and thus Blink, would always be with me. Lady as well, if they stayed together. I was pretty positive that Skittery would go nowhere without a fight, nor would Dave and Sprint. Angel would stay to be with Lady, though perhaps one day, if she found a man that was not Skittery, she would move on. Mugger and Water existed now on the periphery of our group.

I did not want to lose either of them, felt a tug in my chest at the thought of not having them as my own anymore, but the fact remained that Water's best friend was gone, and that Mugger, as much as she loved us, would most likely follow him if he left.

I looked at Alex, almost an exact copy of Ben, with a few deliberate mistakes, and almost wished, for a moment, that he could stay, could become a stand-in for Ben.

But that was impossible. Frankly, there _was_ no stand-in. There would be no replacements. No matter who edged their way into our group over the next years, no one would fill the place where Ben had been. From now on, we would always, no matter who was present, be missing one.

"I'm just—" I motioned a little helplessly and stood, Alex's hand slipping off my arm. I walked briskly through the apartment and into Ben's room, not looking at anyone, my eyes straight ahead, my posture impeccable.

And then I slumped onto Ben's bed, hanging my head and clutching at the loosened sheets still mussed from my own body.

The door I had shut with my hip clicked open, and Seth poked his head in. "Alright if I come in?" he asked, and I looked up, my eyes surprisingly dry.

"Whatever you wanna talk about, Seth, I can't," I said, and he slid through the door and shut it, leaning back on it, crossing his arms over his chest.

I stared at him for a moment, pressure building in my chest, clamping down on my lungs like a vise, and then burst out, "What? What do you want me to say to you, Seth?"

His body didn't even really move, but my eyes, long-ago trained to notice his every mannerism, picked up on a slight contraction of his form as all his muscles tensed together, face included.

When he spoke, his voice was much, much calmer than I expected. "Just tell me what you want me to do here, Lydia. You know where I stand," he added, and I flashed back to his confession: _I want to marry you_, and felt another clench in my lungs. "I thought I knew where you stood, but now I don't."

The pressure rose into my throat, pushing up into my chin, jaw, and eyes until the latter filled with tears. I pursed my lips and looked away, to the side, at the wall, at nothing.

"Everything is different," I whispered, my voice cracking.

I wasn't positive that that was entirely true. That last night with Ben at the lodging house, when he had caught me out, seen through me at last, he had been gone from my life. Our relationship had been as shattered as if one of us had died.

But then one of us really _had_ died. And in the end, he had loved me, had wanted me. Had needed me to hold onto him, comfort him, as he slipped away.

And I had realized, far too late, that I had loved him: really and truly loved him.

And I had no idea what that meant in relation to Seth.

"Do you want me to just go?" he asked softly, looking at the floor, and I sensed that he wasn't talking about the room.

"Go back Upstate?" I asked, feeling a tiny swoop of horror at the thought of his leaving.

"Yeah," he said, looking up, but past me, at the window on the far wall. "I have another week left here, but I can just…go, if you want me to."

I digested this, and as I did, a thought occurred to me. "What were you planning on doing when your week was up?" I asked, trying to keep any shrill-like tendency out of my voice.

He gave me a half-shrug, his arms still folded across his ribcage. "I thought we'd talk about it. If you wanted to come back with me, then we could live there." He paused, and I could almost literally see him flipping through the images of us on that farm in his mind. "Or if you wanted to stay, I would have found a job here."

"But you love it there," I said, and he finally looked at me.

"So?" he countered, raising an eyebrow. "I love it here, too. The fuck does it matter where I am, really? I just wanted to be with—" he faltered and looked away again, too prideful to say it all again, especially now when it could all be for nothing.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to make this decision now. Ben was gone, and the very thought made me feel like my insides were being flayed. Seth was here—alive, beautiful, mine if I wanted him.

There was no contest, really. I could not be with Ben.

But still, it felt like the competition was still being played, as though being with Seth would undermine everything I had realized, finally, that I had felt for Ben.

And really, it wasn't fair to Seth, either. How could I be with him? He would know that I was with him by order of elimination, as morbid and grotesque as that sounds.

I'm not saying I didn't love Seth. I did. Obviously, clearly I did. But we would both always know that in the end, my decision to be with him was made because the other man who held my heart was dead.

And then where would we be?

Could I be with _anyone_ now? I could hardly stand to be around myself, frankly, what with all the grief, rage, hurt, and wildly conflicting emotions roiling around in my head.

I mean, honestly, look at the bare bones of this situation: Girl loves two boys. Girl breaks boy two's heart by sleeping with boy one. Boy one confesses undying love to girl. Boy two dies, and reaffirms love for girl with dying breath. Girl now even more confused than before.

Seriously. What in the hell _is_ this shit?

"How did we get here?" I said aloud, more to myself than to Seth, but he answered anyway.

"I have no fucking idea."

"It wasn't supposed to _be_ like this," I said, feeling all my emotions coalesce into rage, into the one thing I had thus far refrained from saying. "Why did you have to go in the first place?" I demanded, standing, feeling my body grow hot with fury. "We could have been _happy_. We could have been together, and then none of this would have ever happened!"

By the time I finished, I was shouting, and I knew everyone outside the room could hear me, but I was so past caring I barely gave it a thought.

I moved forward, stepping up to Seth and yanking at his arms, jerking them from his chest so he had no self-protection left.

"If you had stayed the first time, we wouldn't be in this mess!" I yelled, my voice strong and high. I felt myself start to cry, and pushed at Seth's chest.

He looked stricken but unsurprised. His eyes were wide with hurt and sadness, his lips parted slightly. He made no move to stop me when I shoved at him.

"This is all your fault!" I screamed, knowing I sounded crazy and not caring. Someone other than me needed to be held responsible for this horrible tragedy. I had to get the burden of guilt off my own heart, no matter how warped it was. "_Everything_ is your fault!" I yelled again, my voice cracking and growing strained.

"Lydia—" he started, and leaned forward, raising a hand slowly toward my face, to anchor me.

I slapped him.

The crack of my palm on his face was loud, staccato, and echoed in the silence that followed as his head jerked on his neck and his face turned to the side. He stared at the floor and licked his lip, which was cut and bleeding, my own hand having split his skin. His entire face clouded with anger, and when he looked back at me, I stepped back, slightly afraid.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. And I was. I felt horrified at what I had just done, ashamed and embarrassed.

Seth shook his head. "I have to leave here," he said softly, and bit down on his unharmed bottom lip for a moment, his eyes starting to glitter. "I knew this was gonna happen," he murmured, and when he looked back at me, the naked pain and regret in his eyes made me feel a little dizzy.

"Seth…" he didn't cut me off, but I didn't know what else to say. The fact of the matter was that I was a mess. I was in tatters over Ben, and angry at the wrong people, and still, evidently, stinging from Seth's abandonment three years' prior, which I had honestly thought I was over.

"I love you," he said finally, into the buzzing silence. "But I obviously can't stay here."

And then, without another word, without a single touch or a last look, he left.

I mean, he_ really_ left. 

I stayed in Ben's room for over an hour by myself before Panic came in. I told her as much as I could between fits of sobbing, and she recruited Skittery to take me to Brooklyn, to go along with me as I, in a frenzy, tried to track Seth down.

By the time we got to his mother's apartment, it was empty. The door was unlocked, Seth's key on the counter.

All his things were gone, every trace of him, except that key, erased.

I picked up the key, its string dangling from my hand, and stared at it as though it would start talking to me, telling me how to find him.

I wasn't even sure I wanted him to stay. All I knew was that it could not end like this. This could not be the end of our story.

As Skittery took my arm and led me gently out of the apartment, and I leaned on him for support, it seemed, however, that it very well may have been.


	18. Chapter 16

In the months that followed, the weather remained gray and cold, blustery like my mood. It was all I could do to make it through the day with the girls and the cleaning and the tasks that were necessary to perform.

I was so exhausted all the time. I honestly felt like I could have fallen asleep anywhere. Coffee was all that kept me going, and as a result of a caffeine overload, I felt too squeamish most of the time to eat all that much. Basically, I guzzled coffee and then slurped down water to stop my skin and body from feeling like it was shriveling up.

By the time I was allowed to sleep, my mind, all but trembling from all the coffee, refused to shut down and let me slip off. When I did, though, I wandered through dreams where Ben was alive and Seth hadn't left. Beautiful dreams of reunion, and sensuous, torturous dreams of sexual abandon.

But there were also the dreams that made me wake up in a sweat, breathing hard, my heart pounding. Dreams where I went to the cemetery (as I had been unable to do so far in real life) to visit Ben's grave and he erupted from the thawing ground like a leviathan, black with mud and seething with rage, coming for me with hands made claws, screaming that I had killed him.

I hated these dreams for the obvious reason that they terrified me to my very core, but part of me looked forward to them, not for the dreams themselves, but because the naked fear I felt upon waking was more and better than the deadened weight I felt the rest of the time.

On March 31, I awoke feeling somehow different. My head no longer felt like it was filled with cotton, my mouth wasn't dry, and my body no longer felt as though my veins were filled with lead and not blood. I felt…alert.

I climbed out of bed and pulled the curtains, feeling a warm spring sun seep into my winter-laden bones, thawing not just the earth but me.

Somehow, today, for the first time in months, I felt alive from within.

It wasn't until I removed my nightdress to change that I realized why.

I had been so out of it the past few months that I had barely taken notice of my clothing or my body, but that day, feeling so fresh and awake, I looked down and actually took in what I was seeing.

I was thin. Probably the thinnest I'd ever been, but in a way that looked, I thought, (or, rather, hoped) delicate and feminine, not emaciated. I looked down at my body for a moment, my heart freezing, then up into the mirror.

Though my face was pale with shock and realization, my skin was pink, healthy, glowing.

Just like they say your skin looks when you're pregnant.

Pregnant.

I stared down at my abdomen, the muscles at the sides more evident now than ever, what with my weight loss. But in between my hip bones was a tiny little bump, the hard lump of a growing uterus.

I knew enough about babies to know it was most likely all bloat and not baby, but it was still, regardless, unmistakable.

I tried to think back, my mind whirring through January, February, March, trying to remember if I had bled in those months.

No.

"Oh. My. God," I said finally, my voice low with disbelief.

I prodded the bump in my abdomen, feeling bewildered, blindsided.

I managed to dress and get the girls off, making normal conversation with Panic and Sprint before making up an excuse to leave, something about getting fresh bread. They both looked at me, perplexed, as in the last months I had barely left the house at all.

I ignored their looks and fled, running to the trolley and heading clear across Queens, not caring how long I was gone. I could not let a man see me like this, could not have this confirmed by a man, who would, without doubt, look at me in judgment. I didn't have the energy to fabricate a marriage.

There was a clinic, run by a female doctor named Rose Montley. I knew of the clinic because one of our girls, a wild little thing nicknamed Speedy (seriously. No guesswork there, right?) had fallen pregnant. We had scoured the gossip mill for a place where we could take her to be monitored, looked over, where women without judgment would deliver her baby. Speedy's child, a tiny, pink girl, had been adopted out, and Speedy had left soon after, seemingly unaffected by any of it.

I had gotten to know and trust Doctor Rose, as she preferred to be called, in my visits to her clinic with Speedy, and now, when I was in a similar situation and feeling more than a bit panicked, she was the only doctor I was willing to trust.

By the time I got there, I was sweating, and wishing I had taken the weather into consideration before wearing long sleeves. I was more fashionable now than the last few months, though, in my white spring skirt, deep, golden yellow blouse, and tan belt. But the blouse was still stifling.

I entered the clinic and looked over to see two women, one who was continuously blowing her streaming nose into a handkerchief while dabbing her watering eyes with another. The second woman was hugely pregnant, and looked just about ready to kill herself.

The door that led back to the exam rooms opened and Doctor Rose, a woman with a striking, wide, kind face and almost-black hair that was already, at thirty-four, sporting a rather fetching streak of gray, stepped out into the front room.

Her face jerked when she saw me. "Lydia!" she said, moving forward, her eyes lighting up in genuine excitement as she embraced me. "What brings you here? Not another pregnant newsgirl, I hope?" she said, half-stern, half-teasing, and I shook my head.

"Not a newsgirl, Rose," I said softly, and she stared at me for a split second before her eyes flicked to my stomach and back up.

"Oh, my," she breathed, then snapped back to the professional doctor. "I can see you as soon as I get these two checked out," she said, and I nodded. She gave my arm a squeeze as I turned to sit.

The pregnant woman went first, a nurse easing her along as she pressed a hand to her back. I could not look away.

"Allergies," the snotty, teary woman to my right said, and I grimaced with what I hoped looked like sympathy and not revulsion, at least thankful she didn't have some sort of horrible virus.

I stared out the window at the street, at all the people out there walking, strolling, laughing. It was a beautiful warm day, and people were shedding their coats, walking with them flung over their arms, unbuttoning and rolling cuffs to let the spring breeze kiss their skin.

I stared at these nameless people until Rose came back and took my hand without a word, leading me to the exam room.

As I waited for her to wash her hands and draped myself with a sheet, I pondered the last few months. I had chalked up the way I had felt to grief and loss. I'm sure part of it had been that, yes, but now, the exhaustion, the squeamishness, the foggy feeling in my head—it all made more sense.

Once I was propped and primed, she inserted her fingers and pressed on my belly. After a minute, she removed her fingers and stood to wash them in the sink.

She dried them slowly, and then turned, her expression deliberately calm. "You're definitely pregnant," she said, and a rush of emotion I couldn't pinpoint flowed through me. "I'd say about 14 weeks, which…." She turned and consulted a calendar, flipping through it. "Puts your date of conception at around…" she looked up and smiled softly. "Christmas Day."

Of course. The day Seth's mother had died. The day I had run to him after Ben had left.

I managed a tiny, bashful smile, and Rose flipped through the calendar some more. "That will put your due date around September 16," she said, then pushed the calendar away and came to sit by me.

"I take it this is a surprise?" she said softly, as always kind and nonjudgmental.

I scoffed a bit. "I'm surprised, yes. But I suppose I shouldn't be," I said, feeling stupid and naïve. "It's not like I don't know how babies are made."

"There was no protection used?" she asked mildly, and I, feeling too idiotic to explain, shook my head.

"Is the father…" she trailed off, letting me take the lead, not wanting to push me too far or cross any boundaries.

"He's not…he left. Months ago," I said, and shook my head, feeling a bit weepy all the sudden. "I don't even know how to get a hold of him."

Rose tilted her head at me. "Would be come back, then, if you told him?"

I nodded, wiping at my eyes. "He would come back in a second," I said shakily.

"Ah," Rose said, nodding. "You're not sure you want him to."

I shrugged helplessly. "This is kind of a game changer," I said, looking at the wall.

"You'll figure it out," Rose said, and took my hand, pulling me up to stand. She gave me a warm hug, and I breathed in her comfort—floral perfume and that medical smell of all clinics and hospitals.

We walked to the front, which was blessedly empty, and as she saw me out, Rose said, "Take care of yourself, Lydia. You're too thin. This baby needs you to eat."

I laughed, the sound foreign in my ears but familiar in my body. "I'll eat," I promised, opening the door.

"I'll see you here in one month, okay? I want to keep an eye on you both." I nodded, smiling, and was halfway out the door when her voice stopped me. "And Lydia?" she said.

I turned. She smiled a bit shyly. "Congratulations," she said, and I, miraculously, beautifully, laughed again.

I didn't go home, not just then. I didn't know what any of this meant, what kind of repercussions it would have, but I knew I had to at least try to get in touch with Seth.

His own father had known of him, known of his impeding birth, and had turned away. I had no doubts that Seth would do the opposite.

I also knew I would never forgive myself—or expect him to forgive me—if I did not give him the chance to be a better father than one he'd had.

Would we be together now? I wondered. I imagined he would want us to be. But I, even without the fog clouding my mind, was unsure. In imagining my future family, my heart flipped between wanting Ben, an impossibility, to wanting Seth.

I could have that now, I knew—have a family with Seth. But the question was: did I want it?

One way or the other, I could not keep this baby from him. This was a secret I could not keep hidden away from his knowledge.

I felt, with this child inside me, like I was finally, at last, growing up.

So, without any sense of what I would do when I got there, I made my way to Brooklyn, to his mother's old apartment.

I stood in the hallway and fingered the key around my neck, which I still, for reasons I can only describe as masochistic, wore tangled with the necklace Ben had given me.

But surely, by now, there were people living there. Using the key would only scare the daylights out of them and probably get me arrested and/or killed.

So I knocked.

Within moments, the door was answered by a young, frazzled-looking young woman with frizzy reddish hair and pale skin, wearing a threadbare but spotlessly clean brown dress.

She stared at me for a moment, uncomprehending.

"Hi," I said, "I'm really sorry to bother you, but—"

"You're her," she said, her voice full of wonder and a twinge of excitement.

"Excuse me?" I said, instantly lost.

"Come in, come in!" she said, and pulled me through the door. I followed her, eyes wide, and immediately set eyes on a tiny baby nestled in a cradle on the floor, swathed in blankets and fast asleep.

I swear, my uterus ached a little. Great.

I looked around the apartment, awestruck. It was still shabby, still dingy, but the furniture had been painstakingly covered in crisp, clean blue fabric, the floors and walls scrubbed. The windows shone and were covered with yellow curtains. There were new spring flowers everywhere.

"You've been here before?" she said, smiling.

"Yes," I said softly, still looking at everything. "It's…much different," I said. "It looks beautiful."

She beamed, her cheeks taking on a pink glow of pleasure. "Thank you," she said, and then stuck out her hand. "I'm sorry to have alarmed you. My name is Lottie."

"Lydia," I said, shaking hers. It was warm, her skin soft. As I watched, she bent to check on the sleeping baby, adjusting the blankets and running a hand over its tiny face, smiling as the baby scrunched its lips in response.

"What did you mean when you said, 'you're her'?" I asked, and Lottie beamed.

"The girl in the photo, of course!" she said, clearly ecstatic about this exciting break in her day.

I stared at her, feeling as though I had been transported into a strange universe where everything looked the same but I knew nothing. "What picture?" I asked, and she immediately hurried over to the desk—the same desk as before—and rustled through the drawer, finally coming up with a small print.

I took it from her and was met with an unbelievable sight. A photograph of me, at seventeen, dressed in a black dress with a white apron, staring up at a stage with my tray in my arms, my face rapt with attention and admiration.

The rally. Denton. He must have taken this. And Seth, somehow, had seen it and gotten it from him. I wondered when. Had he carried this photo with him for all these years, brought it with him Upstate? Or had he sought Denton out over Christmas, asked to see any spare photos?

"Turn it over," Lottie said, fairly bursting with anticipation.

I did. _Killearn Farm, 539 Killearn Road, Millbrook, New York._

"Where did you find this?" I breathed, my eyes taking in Seth's hand, a writing I had never seen before that still managed to look familiar. The letters were neat but spiky, running together. I ran my fingers over his words, feeling his hand tracing the letter.

"It was under the table when we moved in," Lottie said, coming to stand next to me. "Can you believe it?"

"Under the table?" I repeated, feeling a cold shock run down my spine. Seth had left this for me, along with the key, but somehow, it had fallen off the counter, and I, in my panic, had not even looked around.

"Who left this for you?" Lottie asked, moving to take the photo. I held fast to it, clenching the thick paper in my fingers, and she let go, smiling a little.

"He…" I didn't know what to say.

"Ah," Lottie said, her cheeks going pink with pleasure. "Well, honey, you'd better go find him."

A few hours later, I was walking back into the lodging house, clutching both the photo and the letter I had written in a park, sitting on a bench in the sun, hunched over a writing tablet, trying to put to words what I had to tell Seth.

"Where the hell have you been?" I looked up. Skittery, standing in the front room with Panic, Mush, Sprint, and Dave.

I looked at all of them, standing there with worry and anger in their eyes. I could guess at their concern. Months go by when I barely leave the house, and then I haul ass out of the house and don't come back until—I glanced at the clock—seven o'clock.

I clutched my papers to my chest. "I'm sorry," I began, and the door opened behind me.

"Is she—" Water's agitated voice cut off. "Oh." I turned. He ran a hand through his hair, looked me over, I guess checking for injury, then looked to the group behind me. "You said she was missing."

"She was!" Sprint exclaimed. "She ran off this morning and never came back!" Sprint's light eyes were glittering with tears, and I instantly felt horrible at making her worry. She was so caring, always so concerned.

"I'm fine," I put in, and looked to the entire group. "But…" I trailed off, trying to weigh my options here. I took a deep breath and decided to just bite the bullet. "I got some news today," I said, and hesitated, biting my lip, feeling my heart start to pound with nerves, stomach fluttering.

"Did you hear from Seth?" Panic asked, taking a step forward.

I laughed, and everyone jolted. I could only imagine what they were thinking. I go from being a sad, gray hermit to a laughing, glowing girl who runs out of the house into the sunshine in one day. "Did I hear from Seth?" I repeated, and considered this. In a way, I suppose I had, I thought, bringing my free hand down to press onto my abdomen, the proof of Seth alive in my own body. "In a sense."

"What the hell does that mean?" Skittery asked, folding his arms, narrowing his eyes.

I inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to calm myself and make sure my voice didn't shake. It may have been my imagination, but I swear everyone and everything froze for a brief moment of anticipation.

"I'm pregnant."

There was a beat of silence. The beat turned into a lull. The lull got tense and awkward, and then, just when I was ready to flee, Skittery moved, just slightly, his lips cracking into a grin.

"This is a joke."

I looked around, and every single person had the same look—disbelief.

I deflated. I didn't know what I had expected. I suppose I had envisioned hugs and screaming, the same type of reaction, maybe, that Panic and Mush had received upon announcing their engagement.

"No, it's not," I said, my voice flat, and the grin slid off Skittery's face. He stared at me, and his eyebrows quirked inward, just briefly, just enough for me to see the flash of disappointment in his eyes.

At that, a huge swell of hurt rose in my chest, and I spun on my heel and fled into my room.

I slammed the door behind me and—or, well, tried to slam the door. The door I had pushed closed so hard I felt my shoulder wrench did not make any sort of the slamming noise. Instead, there was a dull thud, followed by a, "Motherfucker," and I turned to see Skittery rubbing his wrist, where I could only assume the door had connected.

"Seriously, John," I said folding my arms across my chest. "I don't need a lecture. What's done is done."

He shook his head, looking stricken. "I'm sorry, Lydia," He said, moving forward and stretching his arms out. I didn't move forward, but didn't move away, either, and he embraced me tightly. "This is just…"

I could feel his thoughts hanging in the air, all his emotions—disappointment, surprise, shock, worry—and squeezed him. "I know. I'm thinking exactly what you are."

He pulled back, holding my upper arms gently in his hands. "Are you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. "'Cause I'm thinking you need to figure out a way to find Seth."

I nodded my head toward the papers I had tossed on the bed upon my entrance, raising my brows. Skittery turned to look, looked back at me, then focused again on the papers.

"Go look," I said, and he released me to pick up first the picture, which caused his brown eyes to widen in shock. "Turn it over," I suggested, and he did, flipping it so fast I would have thought it was going to fly out of him hand.

"Jesus Christ," he said, looking up at me.

I opened my mouth, but stopped when the door creaked open and Panic poked her head in. "Can we come in?" she said, and I nodded, expecting it to be her and Sprint, or perhaps Mush. I was instead surprised to see the entire group file into my rather small bedroom.

"Lydia, we just wanna say—" Water began, then stopped as he noticed Skittery, who was still staring at me with a look of mixed apprehension and excitement on his face. "What are you doing?" Water said, and snatched the picture from Skittery. I very nearly cried out at the thought of it being ruined. Water looked at it, at the side with my image on it, and tilted his head. "This is nice," he commented mildly, then seemed to take a closer look at my photographic self's surroundings. "Is this the rally?" he said, his voice instantly more intense, and he peered down at the picture, smiling slightly.

His face seemed to hitch, to flicker slightly, as though he had seen something in the photo he had been unprepared for, but he recovered so fast, I told myself it was my imagination.

Water did not need to be told to flip the photo over, and when he did, and read what was written there, he looked up at me, not with shock or surprise, but with a steady gaze, a more serious gaze now than the one he had worn before December 28.

Water nodded at me, then passed the photo around. Everyone took their turn, and eventually, the photo was back in my hand, passed to me by Dave, and all eyes were on me.

Finally, Panic spoke. "So when are you going, then?" She sounded so sure, so matter of fact, that I cocked my head at her.

"What do you mean, when am I going?" I asked. I slid past Skittery to lift my carefully composed letter off my bed. "I just wrote this. I'm gonna send it to him. After that, it's his call."

No one looked impressed, but they all stayed silent. Finally, Panic pursed her lips, folded her arms, and said, "Well, let's hear it then."

I stared at her, looked at all of them in turn. "Seriously?" I asked, my voice going a smidgen higher than I had anticipated.

Skittery sat down on the bed as though settling in for a nice story. Sprint sat next to him and Dave plunked himself down on her other side. Mush and Skittery sat at the foot of my bed, and Water leaned himself against the doorframe, folding his arms and staring levelly at me.

I looked at him the longest, studied his face the most. Water and I, we were the most changed by what had happened, the ones who had been altered to the core at losing Ben. I was dying to ask him what he was thinking, how he felt, knowing that I, the woman Ben had loved, was pregnant with another man's child.

Since Ben's death, Water had become more open, more honest. He had stopped sugar-coating things to make the people around him comfortable. He had hardened. Glimpses of the old Water still surfaced on occasion, were becoming, as the months passed, more frequent, but I knew the laughing boy I had known for so long would never be back, at least not at full force.

I could tell by his face that he wanted to say something, and I raised my eyebrows, just slightly, in his direction. He shook his head once, then made a twirling motion with his index finger, clearly motioning that I must go first, and get on with my reading.

"Okay, well I—" I started, and looked down at the letter that had taken me nearly an entire day to write, and now seemed far too short, too inadequate for all the anticipation I could see on their faces.

But I read anyway.

"_Seth,_

_I can't even being to explain to you the shock I felt upon discovering the picture—the one of me, so long ago, at the newsboys' rally. The one you left for me at your mother's apartment. The one that fell off the table, onto the floor. The one I did not see until today, when I went to the apartment to search for any clue of where you might be, and met the new tenant, who had found the picture and, for some reason I can only be thankful for, kept it._

_I'm writing you today not because I have any answers for you. In fact, what I am about to say will undoubtedly bring more questions to the table. _

_I don't know how to say this. I feel—I _wish_—there were words to soften the blow, but I have wracked my brain and been unable to find any. So I'll just say it: I'm pregnant._

_I'm pregnant, and the child I carry can only be yours._

_I don't know what to tell you to do with this information. I don't know what I even feel about this news myself. _

_All I know for sure is that I could not have lived with myself had I not given you the chance to be the father you never had to _your_ child._

_I cannot tell you, not now, how I feel about us, and our relationship. I cannot promise us a future together. All I can say is that I do love you, and care for you deeply. You've always known that, haven't you?_

_I can't tell you what to do here, Seth. I hope you will choose to be a father to this baby. I know what a wonderful one you would make._

_I can only promise you that no matter what you decide, whether you choose to come or not, I will be the very opposite of the mother you had, and will love this baby we created more than life itself. Even in my confused state of mind, my apprehension, I am certain of that._

_I'm sorry Seth. Turning your life upside-down was never something I planned to do._

_Best regards, and awaiting your reply,_

_Lydia_"

When I finished, there was a hushed silence, and then Panic took a deep breath, breaking the spell.

"First off, that was beautiful," she said, holding up a finger. Then, she raised a second in the air. "Second, 'best regards?' Really?"

I threw up my hands, rustling the papers. "I didn't know what else to say!" I exclaimed, and Skittery rolled his eyes.

"Love, maybe? That occur to you?" he asked, his voice sarcastic but still gentle, and I smiled as I tossed my head back in mostly-fake despair.

I looked around at the group, and settled my gaze on Water. "What do you think, Paul?" I asked, needing his opinion, for I knew he would be brutally honest.

He considered me for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he shrugged. "I mean, it's a great letter, and you're an amazing writer. But…" he looked around at the group, and I turned in time to see everyone nodding encouragingly at him.

It always made me extremely nervous whenever every single one of them was in agreement over something.

"I still think you should just go Upstate," he finished, and I stared.

"I can't do that," I protested, feeling a nearly paralyzing swoop of nerves at the thought. "I wouldn't be able to think, let alone speak coherently," I added, and Dave broke in.

"I don't believe that. Even at your most nervous you've always been able to command an audience." He looked over at Mush. "Remember when she told us the truth about Queens?"

Mush nodded. "I remember," he said, looking on mock-sternness at Panic, who rolled her eyes and laughed. "I couldn't have walked out if I had wanted to. Seriously."

I looked them over, all the people on my team, and sighed. "How about this?" I said, feeling inspiration strike. "I send the letter. If I don't hear back within…a month? I go Upstate."

Water pushed himself off the doorframe and stood in front of me, his hand extended. I took it, and he said, his voice low, "One month," and we shook.

This decided, everyone started to file out of the room. There were girls to get in bed and a dinner to be made, after all, and I was suddenly famished. But as I made to stride out, Water caught my arm.

Once we were alone, Water moved to my bedside table and picked up the photo, staring down at it. "What did you see?" I asked, moving toward him. "I know you saw something in that photo."

Water handed it to me, coming to stand next to me and peering over my shoulder. "You're looking at Seth," he said, pointing from my face to the stage, where all you could see of Seth was the cuff of a trouser and the side of a shoe. "But someone's looking at you," he said, sliding his finger from my face to a person sitting behind me, a person I had not, at first, noticed.

There, in that nearly four year-old picture, a man stared at me, his face, though slightly out of focus, clear enough to make out.

From four years in the past, a blurred, almost ghostly image of Ben watched me as I stared after Seth, who was, as always, just out of reach.

AN: OMG, I know, I suck. It's been for-effing-ever. I've been so busy with work and school. :/ I know, I'm an asshat. Know what will make me update faster? If ALL YOU NON-REVIEWING READERS WOULD REVIEW. Yeah, that'd be such a motivator. :D :D :D


	19. Chapter 17

It seemed obscene, how fast that month went by. It was as though all the sudden I blinked, and it was April 30. Water and I had a brief argument about whether my time was up on April 30 or May 1. I, naturally, argued for the latter, and he the former.

The debate was ended in my favor when I pulled my trump card—pregnancy. I was finding that people let me get my way a lot more often now that I was all fertile and everything. It was kind of nice, although I was doing my best not to overuse it to as to run out of favors before the nine months were up.

Either way, however, it didn't make a difference. Whether time had been up on Saturday the 30th or Sunday the 1st, it all came to the same end result: Nothing. No word. No Seth on the doorstep. Not a note, a postcard, or a damned smoke signal. Nothing.

And so, there I was, a little over eighteen weeks pregnant, bound by a deal to go Upstate, to a town I'd never heard of, Millbrook, to find a man whom I wasn't sure wanted me to find him.

Water had taken the initiative and figured out that a train from Grand Central to the outskirts of Millbrook would take me somewhere around four or five hours, depending on stops. I was still trying to decide what course of action to take when, on Sunday, May 1st, at two in the afternoon, Water walking into the lodging house looking like a man on a mission.

He was closely followed by Blink, Skittery, Angel, Lady, Mugger, Blink, and Dave. Almost as though they had some sort of synchronized plan, Panic and Sprint strolled in mere moment later.

I'm not so sure it wasn't planned, come to think it of it.

I had been scrubbing windows with newspaper and vinegar (the smell of which I could not seem to get enough of), and I had halted, motionless, my arm still pressing a wad of newspaper into the window as I watched them, my family, gather in my front room.

Slowly, I lowered my arm and turned, my hand clenching on the paper, my free hand going automatically to my abdomen. I felt, by this point, like there may as well have been a great giant sign pointing at my huge stomach, but everyone else swore up and down that I wasn't even showing yet. I'm sure they were right, and I was just paranoid and self-conscious.

"What is this?" I asked, though I was quite certain I already knew.

Sure enough, Water help up a slip of paper that looked suspiciously like a train ticket. I squinted at it, pursing my lips and trying to buy time to think before I had to come up with a viable excuse to not go.

Going up there, it terrified me. After all, as far as I knew, Seth had received my letter. He knew I was pregnant with his child, and what—did he just not care? I couldn't fathom that. Seth Conlon had many flaws, but I was certain that stepping up to being a father would not be one of them.

I had a terrible, gnawing feeling that the issue at hand was not that Seth wasn't buying the idea that I was pregnant. I feared, so deeply it made my insides ache, that what he did not believe was that a child of mine was also a child of his.

Did Seth know, for certain, that I had not slept with Ben? I had wracked my brain over and over, trying to recall if we had ever specifically spoken on that subject, and could not remember. I had no idea if he thought I had been sleeping with the both of them at the same time.

How could I go all the way up that farm, traipse into his life, and try to make him into a father if he didn't even believe me?

I was still staring, wordless, at the ticket when Skittery walked up and slipped an arm around me. "You have to go, Lydia," he said softly, squeezing me, and I felt my shoulder press into his ribs, felt the pressure as he took a breath before continuing. "I know you're scared, but you just have to get it over with."

"What if he doesn't believe me?" I whispered, looking up at him. "What if he hates me?" I looked to the entire group. "What if I drag myself all the way there and he won't even talk to me?"

Everyone was silent, no one meeting my eye. Then, Panic, always my lifesaver, moved forward and grasped my shoulders, pulling me out from under Skittery's wing. "Then you come back home and we do this together," she said, looking me dead in the eye. I glanced at the others. Every one of them was nodding in agreement, faces set, and I knew they had had many a conversation in the last month, probably timing their clandestine meetings around the walk I took after dinner each night. Whatever, each of them was on the same page, all of them determined to see this through, to see _me_ through, whichever way Seth and I turned out.

"You sure you still wanna be friends with an unwed mother?" I asked, sweeping the entire group with my gaze, and felt a lightness overtake my chest as they all laughed.

The next morning, I was packed, ready, and deposited at the train station by a very unwavering Water, who seemed resolved to see this little deal of ours through to the end and had, with a much sunnier disposition than I, gotten me to the station at the crack of dawn, and was quite literally whistling as we waited.

"I really wish I could take time off to watch this shit go down," he said now, the ghost of that old grin cracking onto his face, "But the people need their mail, you know. I'm a very important man."

I snorted, trying and failing to stay aloof with him. Just as I opened my mouth, the train whistle blew, and it seemed like seconds later that the doors were open, passengers were dismounting, and the steps into the train were just waiting for my cold feet.

Water and I, we had not talked much the last few months. We were together more than half the week, of course, and we spent a lot of time observing each other, but neither of us had talked of what had happened. Ben's name, it didn't come up. Oh, he was there, of course, in the blank space in our living room, at the empty chair at the table. His comments went unsaid in the breaks in our conversations.

I did not miss the way Water's eyes automatically scanned the room, still, after all these months, for his best friend, nor the way a light, an insane, childish hope of somehow, magically, seeing Ben sprawled on the couch, his long form taking up all the room, went out of them at the realization, once again, forever, that Ben would not be there.

We didn't talk. Not about Ben. Not about how we were coping, moving along, moving through the days, weeks, months, without him.

I suppose part of it was fear at what talking about Ben would bring up, which emotions we had buried would surface at the mention of his name. I hoped, deeply, that as the years went by, we could, all of us, remember him as he had been—laughing, joking, beautiful—and not as he had died—broken and far, far too young. Soon, we would all be older than Ben would ever be.

My twenty-first birthday had come and gone with little fanfare on February 12th.

I had not, when Rose had given me my due date, realized that September 16 was only three days shy of what would have been Ben's twenty-second birthday. It was conceivable, given a first child's penchant for lateness, that Seth's and my baby would be born on his birthday.

How's that for a slap in the face?

"You'd better go, Lydia," Water said, snapping me out of my reverie. I looked over at him, considering what to say. I was annoyed at him for making me do this, for forcing me to be a big girl and talk to Seth like an adult. I was especially irritated at the fact that he had seemed to know, somehow, that Seth would not reply.

I had briefly considered that Water had somehow gotten a hold of my letter, though I had mailed it directly from the post office, and it had gone immediately to the mail train toward Upstate, never passing through his hands, though I had heard his lectures on mail fraud whenever Panic, Sprint, or I opened each other's mail, and knew that as much as he wanted me to go, he wouldn't stoop so low as to steal my letter.

Underneath all my irritation, however, was gratefulness. Not just for him, but for all of them, all my friends who pushed me to do the right thing, but stood by me, unwavering, when I failed. I owed them, all of them, so much.

Now, my things having been taken onto the train already by a passing helpful porter, I turned to go, but stopped halfway, pivoting back to face him.

"You know Paul," I said, reaching out to take his wrist, "I wish you could come, too." He looked down at me, and I wanted to weep (yes, I was _that_ hormonal pregnant woman) at the wall that had gone up in his eyes. His light blue eyes had once danced with laughter and freedom, and now, they were, always, guarded. "I get the feeling the stuttering, bumbling, and general making-a-fool-of-myself I'm about to do would amuse you greatly," I continued, then stepped forward quickly to hug him like I had not since the morning after Ben had died. "I love it when you laugh," I murmured, and he exhaled against my shoulder and squeezed.

He released me and smiled softly. "I know I gave you nothing but a hard time about Seth, Lydia," he said, then stopped, looking off to the side, his eyes glazing in memory. "When Ginny and I went into—" he stammered a bit, and I nodded, knowing the words in the blank space were "the hospital room." "Well, he—" he cleared his throat, very obviously struggling to do this, to get this part right. "Ben told me not to be angry with you. He told me to stick by you no matter what, and I promised I would, for him."

I stared at him in awe, wondering what else Ben had said, what he had said to Skittery, who would not need incentive to stay by my side, or to any of the others. None of us had ever, not once, said a word about what Ben had said to us that last time. I wondered, not for the first time, what he had said to Seth.

"I know I gave you a hard time. And I know I haven't been there for you lately. It's too hard, Lydia," he said, his voice taking on a desperate edge. "You're the one who understands the most, but I can't—it's not—" he sighed, shaking his head. "I just don't think I'm ready."

I shrugged, a little helplessly, fiddling with my skirt. "I don't think I am, either," I confessed, and Water seemed to relax, his muscles releasing.

"Well, I just want you to know I hope this all works out," he said, his voice calmer now that we were back on safe ground.

The train whistle blew, and I threw myself onto him. "I'll be back," I promised. "I don't know if it'll be tomorrow, alone, or...what, but I'll be back." I pulled away and looked him dead in the eye. "And when I'm back, we'll talk. We don't have to be ready, we just have to try."

He actually smiled. It started out small, hesitant, and by the time I had run onto the train and taken my seat, I saw, looking out the window, a real, honest to God grin on that man's face.

I'm sure it was only five hours, like they said, but my book was boring, and honestly, after a few minutes, all that countryside starts to look the same. I'm sure it's beautiful when you're in it, but seriously, looking at it from a distance behind a window is not all that fascinating. Anyway, by the time we finally wheezed to a stop outside Millbrook, I felt so antsy I could have jumped out of my skin.

I was trembling with nerves at the thought of seeing Seth, but absolutely itching to get the hell off that train and into the air, where I could affectively stretch my legs.

Once I had gotten off, though, and located my baggage, I realized that I had no idea where I was going, or how to get there. There weren't exactly trolleys to hop on out here in the country.

I stood around watching as the passengers around me walked off toward home or were picked up by laughing, hugging friends and relatives. Soon, it was just me and a young man who looked to be a few years younger than me.

"You look a little lost," he said suddenly. He had stood near me the entire time without saying a word, but I understood only too well the awkwardness of being alone and silent with a stranger. If I hadn't recently become more introverted, I probably would have spoken first.

"It's looking more and more like I am," I replied, looking over at him. He was a well-built young man, not particularly attractive, but with his guileless brown eyes and hair, and his open face, he was a person you couldn't help but trust. "I know where I'm going, but I have no idea where it is or how to get there."

Before the young man could reply, an older man, at least in his fifties, approached us. He was wearing denim from head to toe, the first real farmer I had ever seen. Old, worn boots were molded to his feet, and his hair, silver from what I could see, was covered with a straw hat, blocking the afternoon sun. "Matthew Gillis?" he said, and the young boy nodded, holding out a hand.

"Mr. Killearn?" he asked, and my entire body jolted.

"Killearn, like, Killearn Farm?" I asked suddenly, knowing it was rude to interrupt, but not really caring.

"Why, yes," the man said, turning to look me over with large blue eyes. "Bobby Killearn, miss," he said gruffly, and nodded to me, tipping his hat. "How did you know? You don't much look like a farm hand like this here boy," he said wryly, gesturing to Matthew.

"I'm not," I said, wondering how to play this. "I'm...I need to see your foreman," I blurted, and winced at having so little finesse.

"My foreman?" Bobby repeated, his weathered face creasing in consternation. "What could a City girl need with him?" he asked, and I swear, there was more than confusion there. I saw a distinct glimmer of interest, a spark of curiosity, in those seasoned eyes.

"Seth?" I said, praying fervently that I hadn't somehow made a terrible reading comprehension mistake and picked the completely wrong farm to travel to.

"Yes, Seth," Bobby said, nodding, and a felt a swoop of relief.

"I need to see him," I said, and almost went on, but clamped my stupid mouth shut before I spewed out the entire story in a bout of idiocy.

"Well, I'm afraid Seth's a county over until tonight, lookin' at a new mare. Won't be back 'til 'round near nine or later."

I felt dismay shoot through my insides. Where in the hell was I supposed to go until then?

"Is there anywhere in town I could stay the night?" I asked, feeling a note of self-pity creep into my voice.

Bobby cocked his head at me, looking me up and down, considering, I'm sure, my clothing. I had dressed carefully that morning, in colors I knew Seth liked, and was thus wearing a mint-green dress, light for the warm weather. The bodice was solid until the sweetheart neckline, where the lace overlay, in the same color, clearly showed my chest, collarbone, shoulders, and back. The lace sleeves ended at my elbow. It was much more risqué than what I normally wore, but the combination of brand-new summer fashions and my new-found pregnancy breasts had made me bold.

My thickening waist had been cinched with a corset, and I had tied an almost impossibly bright coral satin sash around the dip in my waist.

I could tell by the look on Bobby's face that he didn't think all that much of my fashion choices. I probably looked like just another New York City bitch to him, if he had been tactless enough to be honest.

"My wife could always use an extra set of hands making dinner for all the farmhands. Can you cook?" he asked, looking at me skeptically, and I cringed a little, feeling I should be honest.

"I'm passable," I said, smiling a little abashedly. "One of my friends and coworkers usually handles dinner for the girls. I'm more the cleaner and the bookkeeper."

Bobby tilted his head, pulling off his hat and fingering the brim. "What is it that you do, Miss..."

"Lydia," I said. "Just Lydia is fine. And I run the Newsgirls' Lodging House in Queens."

"Do you, now?" he asked, looking just a touch impressed, though I could see it was begrudging.

"Yes," I said firmly, and went on, hoping to salvage this and get a free place to stay, "And I can still chop things. I'm also wonderful at following instructions like 'don't let this burn,' and 'get out of my way.'"

Matthew, whom I had all but forgotten about, laughed loudly, and I glanced sideways at him and threw him a commiserating smile.

Bobby, for his part, had cracked a grin, which he covered with his hand before placing his hat back atop his head. "Well, come on then, you two," he said, and walked to his waiting carriage without another word.

I scooped up my luggage as Matthew did the same, and we both hustled to the carriage, quite sure Bobby would leave without us if we were too slow.

Less than forty minutes later, we were trotting up the drive of a spacious, sprawling farm. I could see what look to be corn and wheat growing in fields, and an apple orchard off to the side of a red and white barn. But the house. It was not the farmhouse, ramshackle and peeling, that I had pictured in my judgmental mind. No, it was a pristine white, with three gables at the roof, six windows at the second floor, with a screen-in sunroom at the left and a lovely, deep porch at the right. Three tall, slim pines lined the walk to the front door.

We rode directly past the house and into the barn, where a man in his mid-thirties took my hand to help me dismount. This man, at least, was not above admiring my dress and my face, and smiled at me as he lowered me to the ground.

Bobby, hopping down from the carriage and handing off the horses' reins to a waiting man, called out, "Tommy!" and a man who looked to be right around my age came hurrying over, and Bobby instructed him to take me to the house, to tell Mrs. Killearn I was to be their guest.

Tommy did so silently, and I walked next to him, almost feeling the questions in his head rolling over me. "I take it you don't get many strange women out here?" I asked, and he looked at me quickly before staring ahead again.

"No," he said, "But we also don't get many New York City women out here, either." It was the first time he had spoken a full sentence, and the thickness of his accent, so clearly New York City, hit me in the chest.

"How long has it been since you've been back?" I asked innocently, and his steps faltered slightly before he regained his stride.

"I've only been here three months," he said, and I nodded, noncommittal. I was unsure whether he, also, had run from something, or just decided to try his hand at something new, and didn't want to push a complete stranger. However, it felt nice, knowing that there was someone here who, when they thought of home, pictures the same streets I did. I'm not sure what Seth pictured.

Tommy deposited me and my luggage in the front room of the farmhouse, explaining to the teenaged girl, around what looked to be seventeen, that her father had asked that he bring me to her mother.

The girl, eyeing me warily through small, almost lash-less, colorless blue eyes in a would-be-sweet (very sour expression) but altogether plain face, led me into the kitchen, where a similar-looking woman was peeling and coring apples.

"Mama," the girl, who Tommy had called Nora, called. The woman, Mrs. Killearn, looked up, her face more open, less pinched than that of her daughter.

"Well, a visitor!" she exclaimed, putting down her paring knife and fragrant apple to stand. She wiped her hands on her white apron and held one out to shake mine, smiling. "Hello! Catherine Killearn, but everyone calls me Cathy."

"Lydia Bielecki," I said, smiling as well. Her good cheer was infectious, especially after the suspicious gaze of her young daughter. "I'm so sorry to barge in on you. I came here to speak with one of your workers, but he doesn't seem to be here at the moment. Your husband was kind enough to offer me a place to stay tonight, so long as I help with dinner."

Cathy laughed, a great booming sound that filled the room, and Nora rolled her eyes and went to pour herself a glass of milk, listening intently, I was sure.

"I'm sure whatever my husband was, it wasn't all that kind," she said, showing me even, white teeth as she beamed, and I laughed in surprise.

"Well, I don't know that it was kindness so much as deep-seated chivalry," I conceded, and was awarded with the sound of her laugh again.

"Ah, yes, that Bobby just can't leave a beautiful woman in distress," she said, her voice full of good nature, and as I beamed inwardly at her compliment, I wondered at the pairing of this funny, laughing woman and her tough, crusty husband.

"Who're you looking for?" Nora said suddenly, and I looked to see her cradling a glass in her thin hand, leaning against the counter with one knee bent, her foot pressed against the cabinet below. She really was a little stick of a thing, all elbows and knees.

"Nora, don't stand like that," Cathy said, her voice a sigh. "You look like one of the farmhands."

I hid a smile as Nora scowled and straightened. "Well?" she pressed, "Who's a lady like you after all the way out here?"

Her tone was so insolent I wanted to smack her. Her mother, however, merely shot her a quelling look and turned to me, rolling her eyes when her daughter couldn't see. "My daughter's rudeness aside, I must admit I'm also curious, Lydia."

I hesitated, wavering. This woman seemed to like me. She was, herself, impossible to dislike. But her hawk-like daughter, skulking in the background, seemed angry with me already.

"I'm looking to see your foreman. I understand he's in the next county until later tonight."

"You're looking for _Seth_?" Nora said, and I looked over to see her cheeks reddening.

Ah. So. The young lady of the house most likely had crushes on all the single, unattached men. Her dislike for me was purely a womanly envy. That I could understand. Didn't I half the time want to tear Angel and Lady's hair out, for all that I loved them?

"Yes, I'm looking for Seth," I affirmed, keeping any telling emotion out of my voice.

"Nora," Cathy said, "I want you to go pick more apples. We'll need a lot for the pies tonight." When Nora didn't move, Cathy turned to face her daughter. "Go now, sweet. Pick those apples, please."

Nora, huffing, swooped down upon the empty basket on the floor beside the table and swept out of the room. Cathy held up a hand and waited until the side door slammed before moving to peek out the window, where I could clearly see Nora flouncing across the yard, heading toward the orchard.

"An unfortunate habit for eavesdropping, my daughter has," Cathy said, and I nodded, smiling a little. "I got the feeling you didn't need an audience. And my daughter has an unhealthy crush on your Seth. She wouldn't like to hear he has women in his life."

"He's not exactly 'my' Seth," I said, feeling my heart start to ache a little. His face flashed in my mind, those full tan lips and long nose, the bones in his face, his tanned skin, his cheeks kissed with a hint of pink. The shadow of dark stubble on his face. Eyebrows darker than the hair on his head. Those light, startling eyes.

I closed my eyes and saw him more clearly, looking wounded and disappointed as he walked out of me for the second time, this time my fault.

"I'd say he is most certainly yours," Cathy said, looking at me with understanding in her eyes, and I could barely look at her.

"He could have been," I said softly, and felt a great wave of emotion overtake me. My nose began to tingle and itch, my eyes burned, my chest clenched, and my throat tightened. I shook my head, feeling my eyes well. "I'm sorry," I said, feeling embarrassed. "You don't even know me. You don't want to hear all this."

Cathy laughed softly. "I wouldn't say that. I'm a bit starved for entertainment all the way out there. And I care for Seth. He's a good man. But he's been very sad ever since I've known him. Over three years, now."

I looked at her, considering this. The man I knew had been Spot Conlon, and then, later, the returning Seth. I knew him in his life in the City. I knew next to nothing about the Seth that lived and worked here, on this farm.

"What is he like?" I asked her. "I mean, here, in this place."

Cathy sat down in the chair she had vacated and picked up her apple and knife, motioning for me to take a seat. I did, and she handed me the apple and knife, picking up another of each, and we worked (I could do this well, at least) as she began to talk.

"He came to us very out of the blue. We're always needing good workers, of course, but he was very young and had that City look about him. I admit, Bobby had his doubts, but I told him, 'Bobby, that boy is running from something. He needs this change,' and that was pretty much that.

"Seth did great work, and he has a real knack for getting the other men to work harder. He's a truly wonderful leader, that one. That's how he came to be foreman at so young. I don't know that we've ever before had such a young one."

I exhaled, half laugh, half sigh. "That's Seth, for sure. He's been a leader for a long time."

Cathy gave me a long, searching look, but didn't comment on my remark before going on. "But I don't know that anyone here knows a thing about how he came to be here. He doesn't talk about his life at all." She pursed her lips and looked up from her apple to look into my face. "Like I said, he strikes me as a deeply unhappy man. He's very sad about something."

I had halted in my work to stare at her, feeling my abdomen, where our baby rested, tighten with guilt and sorrow. I wanted to say something, but I felt if I opened my mouth, I would start to cry, so I said nothing, merely looked at Cathy until she said, "It seems to have gotten worse since he came back after Christmas. Did you know none of us knew he had a living mother until he told Bobby and me he needed time off to take care of her?"

This, I could talk about. "We didn't know either," I said, shaking my head. "We didn't know a thing about it until he showed up out of nowhere."

Now it was Cathy's turn to stop working. "You live in the City," she said flatly, and I nodded.

"Yes; Queens," I said, feeling confusion start to creep up on me.

"Seth told us his mother was in Connecticut, where he grew up," she said, and I narrowed my eyes, taken-aback.

"Seth grew up in Brooklyn," I replied, and Cathy and I looked at each other, each wondering why in the world Seth would lie about such a thing.

Then Cathy seemed to shake herself and shrugged, returning to her pile of apples, which was turning into a pile of cores and peels, with naked apples neatly in a bowl, much faster than mine. "Whichever, he seems worse since then. I imagined at first it had to do with his mother's death, but now, with you here, it seems to be much more than that."

I contemplated not telling her, this woman who was essentially a stranger, any more information, but I couldn't seem to help myself. My friends were all talked out, and I needed another outlet for my story. "It was not a good couple of weeks for any of us," I said, and decided to give her the bare bones of what had happened to us. "Seth...he used to be one of us, part of...our group." Seth had clearly chosen not to share his past as a Brooklyn newsy, and though I could not fathom why, I was going to choose to respect that, at least for now.

"He and I, we...Well, when we were teenagers, we were..." I stopped, trying to collect my thoughts. "I loved him," I said finally. "And we had a...relationship of sorts. But he..." I shrugged, feeling that old hurt creep up on me. "He was afraid. He left. Came here. And none of us heard a thing from him until Christmas, when he showed up to tell us his mother was dying."

"And all of you were still there for him? After all he did? I know it's not as simple as you're making it seem. I can tell by your voice that he ran out on a lot of people, and that he hurt you deeply," Cathy did not look up, and so I did not have to feel the added pressure of her eyes on me as I answered.

"We were all angry. I don't even know that I was the most angry. I think my friends—the men, at least—were more angry about him coming back than I was. But...when you grow up like we did, you don't turn each other away. He was a part of our family, and now he needed us." I paused, remembering how it had felt to look into his face, his dear, stunning face, for the first time in so long, and how I had found myself wanting to strike him, but embracing him instead.

"We helped him. _I _helped him. With his mother, with everything. And we...we kind of...fell back into all those old feelings. But there was..."

"Someone else?" Cathy supplied, sneaking a quick look at me.

"Yes," I affirmed. "Someone who was, at one point, Seth's best friend. And I couldn't...I didn't know how to choose between them."

"And now you feel you chose wrong?" Cathy said matter-of-factly, putting down her tools to rest her hands in her lap, looking me full in the face.

I actually laughed, incredulous. "No, the other man died in my arms, and Seth wanted to be with me, but I was too broken to let him, so he left. And now I'm pregnant with his baby." I tossed down my knife with a clatter and sat back, feeling a little victorious at saying it out loud and more than a bit exhausted.

Cathy looked at me with wide eyes for so long I worried she had slipped into some sort of waking coma. Then she shook herself back to reality, and, her voice deliberately light, said, "My, my. I guess you really _are _needing to speak with him, then, hmm?"

I laughed. I laughed so hard I doubled over, choking for air, and Cathy joined me, her booming laugh reverberating off the walls of the large room. "I'd say that's an understatement," I managed, wiping at my watering eye and trying to control myself. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "The problem is, I sent a letter, and he didn't answer. I'm afraid he doesn't believe the baby is his."

Cathy looked levelly at me, and I did not detect judgment in her expression. "Does he have reason to think that?"

I took another deep breath. "I suppose he has reason to think it, but it's not true. I didn't..." I waved my hand around vaguely. "With the other man. But I think Seth is afraid I did."

Cathy leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, my dear, you_ are_ in mess, aren't you? It's good you came."

That night, by the time dinner was over, I had met all the hands and various other workers, my sudden appearance in their midst going unexplained. It seemed that here, as long as the boss and his wife welcomed a new face, so did everyone else.

"Do you mind if I go for a walk?" I asked Cathy once the kitchen was sparkling, not knowing exactly what the protocol here was, only knowing that my legs were itching for a good stroll.

"Of course! Go!" Kathy exclaimed, brandishing a towel at me. "You've been a marvelous help. Go enjoy some fresh air. You need to clean that City air out of your lungs."

I had only walked maybe a quarter of a mile when I saw Tommy coming from the opposite direction. "Hey," I called, waving, and he stopped awkwardly in the middle of the path.

When I caught up with him, he turned back around to walk with me, back the way he had come. "You don't have to, you know," I said, "I get it if you don't wanna walk around with some odd girl."

He laughed and shook his head. "No, I was just...I don't expect to see people from the City here." He looked over at me. "Where do you live?"

"Queens," I said, and he nodded. "You?"

"The Bronx, right near Crotona Park," he said, and I smiled, thinking of all the afternoons I had skived off spying duty as a child in order to laze about in that very park.

"What did you do there?" I asked, and he shrugged.

"Mostly odd jobs. It's why I came here. I couldn't seem to find anything there I liked. Thought I'd try this."

"That seems to be a popular thing these days," I said dryly, and didn't elaborate when he looked at me sideways.

"So what d'you do in Queens?" he asked, squinting up at the quickly setting sun.

"I run the Newsgirls' Lodging House," and he nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I had friends who were newsies," he said, smiling a little. "I used to sell sometimes, too, to make some extra money for my parents when it was tight."

"Did you know Stinger?" I asked, referring to the boy who had been Bronx's leader during the strike, and Tommy laughed, his eyes wide, and sucked air in through his teeth.

"Only met him a few times. Scary kid," he said, shaking his head, and I had to laugh, it was so true. "So, wait," he said suddenly, "Were you one of those secret Queens newsgirls? I heard all about that after it all came out. People were...well it was intense for some people."

I bit my lip and looked at him. We were looking at one another and not on the path, but Tommy seemed to know where he was going, so I merely followed his lead. "I guess you could call me _the_ secret newsgirl. I was the leader."

Tommy whistled. "Damn," he said, sounding a bit awed. "I mean, I didn't have much to do with the newsies then. I turned eighteen and stopped selling on the side the winter before the strike. But my friends who had been newsies, they heard all about that." He chuckled and shot me a grin. "A lot of them were pretty cheesed off about being tricked by a bunch of girls and that Brooklyn guy."

"Spot Conlon," I said automatically, and Tommy's eyes narrowed.

"Conlon," he repeated, then stopped walking, reaching out a hand to pull me to a halt with him. "Are you trying to tell me that Seth, the foreman here, is Spot Conlon, Brooklyn leader?"

I fidgeted a little, feeling like the world's biggest moron for not even considering what uttering Seth's name in conjunction with that topic would mean. Idiot, idiot, idiot. "Shit," I said finally, running my hand across my forehead.

"Are you serious?" Tommy said, and looked off toward the farm, as though it held an explanation. "Jesus Christ. I never knew the leader's name. I wasn't exactly a regular." He shoved his hands back in his pockets and resumed walking, and I hurried along next to him. "I've told him about living in the City. I'm pretty sure I even mentioned selling as a kid. Why the hell didn't he say anything?"

I shrugged, shaking my head. I could only just begin to imagine Seth's motives for lying about where he had come from, and how he had come to be here. I wasn't sure if he had just desperately needed a completely blank slate, a completely unwritten story, or if he had been that determined to ensure that none of us could ever take it into our heads to find him. I was surprised he hadn't made up a fake name.

"Seth doesn't say a whole lot about himself to anyone," I said finally, and Tommy nodded.

"I've noticed. No one seems to know much about him. Now I guess I know why," he added, sounding just a touch bitter. "The more he made up, the more he'd have to keep straight."

"Lies of omission are kind of his forte," I replied, thinking of all things he had lied to me about merely by not mentioning them: the other girls, his mother, his childhood.

"I mean, it's pretty obvious he's carrying around something pretty big," Tommy said. "I mean, his songs are always pretty...well, we're all missing someone. They can kind of wreck you, his songs."

Now it was my turn to stutter to a halt. "What songs?" I demanded, my brow creasing. "Seth doesn't sing," I said, my voice breaking into a laugh at the end, the very thought was so ridiculous.

"Yeah, actually, he does. He's good. And writes, and plays."

"What in the fuck does he _play_?" I said, my voice high. I wasn't quite sure why I was overreacting so spectacularly. I suppose it was just one more aspect of Seth that I was completely unaware of.

"Jesus, now I'm sure you were a newsgirl," Tommy said, looking amused. "He plays the guitar. How do you not know this? He plays almost every night."

I scoffed, feeling put-out. "Well, not around me. Ever."

"So what's the deal with you two?" Tommy asked. We had come almost full-circle, and the house was quickly coming into view. "Why are you here?"

"It's a long story," I hedged, not entirely willing to tell my pregnancy story to this man.

"When it's a long story, it's always sad," Tommy said, quite wisely, I thought, and I could not disagree. "I assume you're the one he sings about, then," he added, and looked me over. "Makes sense."

We were at the house, now, and Tommy caught my arm. "Listen, when he gets back, he's planning to play a few with some of the other guys. He's due back in about an hour." He looked around as though we were making some sort of dirty deal. "Come to the barn in a half hour, and I can tuck you up in the hayloft. You can listen, and he doesn't even have to know you're there."

"And then what?" I countered, trying not to giggle. "I drop down from the rafters to declare my presence?"

"As fun as I'm sure that would be, you could probably just climb or something," he said, and I did giggle. "You'll figure it out, but...If you wanna know what he really thinks of you, you should listen to those songs. This might be your only chance."

I nodded, raising an eyebrow. "I'm absolutely positive he'd never willingly let me hear them."

Tommy lifted his hands in a "well, there ya go," gesture, and I nodded. "A half hour?" I repeated, and he nodded.

He turned to go, then stopped. "You got any different clothes? You might not wanna be climbing up there in that dress."

I smiled slowly, thinking that while a dress was nice, the clothes that made Seth's eyes go soft and liquid were always, without fail, the trousers and undershirt I had worn at his apartment, the soft shoes he had nicked for me. I had them, folded neatly in my bag. "I've got it covered."

"Then I'll see you in thirty minutes."


	20. Chapter 18

Okay, stop (collaborate and listen, or, Hammer Time, whichever you prefer). But no, seriously, stop a second. Go wherever you go to download music, and download "Never Too Late," by Secondhand Serenade. It is absolutely, 100% essential that you hear this song during this chapter. You will know when to listen (Hint: The words are italicized.) Okay. Have you dowloaded? Alright, then, I'm choosing to trust that you have. Now you may read.

.

Forty-five minutes later (okay, I know, but there were things to do. I had to wash the dust of the day off my body, and unpin my tight hair, tying it with an elastic so that the waves about my face hung at my cheek, and reapply my cosmetics so that my face was flawless, my eyes wide and deep, my lips a dusty pink the same shade as his. You know what? Leave me alone. These things are important, and they shouldn't be rushed. I'm a woman.), I was running into the barn, and all the men gathered there, already tuning guitars and fiddles, turned to stare at me.

"Hi, again," I stammered, and looked down, feeling self-conscious about my loose hair and, most importantly, the complete and utter turnaround I had done in my clothing choices. I had shown up looking like a lady, and was now, fifteen minutes before nine, dressed like, well, a boy. I had left my corset on, of course—there wasn't much of an option not to. I was still extremely insecure about the admittedly tiny bump I had sprouted, and these new breasts of mine would not have been able to keep their perky selves contained without all the strapping and pushing my corset provided. I'd had to button my poor shirt up to the top button anyway, just to keep myself from looking like a common prostitute.

I had felt like I was stepping back into my old, familiar skin, wrapping myself up in a comfortable old blanket, when I stepped into those old, soft chocolate pants and salmon undershirt and slipped those worn, anonymously-stolen shoes on my feet.

"Alright, men," Tommy called loudly, striding forward and coming to stand next to me, facing the group. "This is Lydia. She's here to see Seth. I'm sure all of you can figure out that she's the girl in his songs." Tommy stopped to let this sink in, and I sort of gaped at him, absolutely stunned into disbelief that he would just put all that out there in such short, concise words: no frill, no fluff, just the facts. "We had an idea to let her kind of hide out up in the hayloft. She wants to hear him play." He looked out over the watching men, who were all staring at me, quiet. "Nobody tells him she's up there, got it?"

There was silence, and I pursed my lips, the very picture of awkwardness, until one man, the one who had helped me dismount the carriage, burst out with a laugh. "Well, I think we can do that. I think this lady here deserves to hear what Seth thinks of her."

The other men laughed along and nodded, and I started to feel tiny prickles of apprehension. What if his songs were horrible, scathing things written in anger, full of vitriol and fury? If that was so, I was in for quite a rude awakening.

My fears were calmed, though, when an older man came to help me ascend the ladder to the loft and murmured, "We'd all like to see our mighty foreman find a little happiness, miss, that's all. See him be human for awhile." I stopped, my foot on the bottom rung, and looked at him.

It seemed Seth had, somehow, gotten these men to not only respect him, but to root for him, to wish for him to find whatever it was he was after. And they were, clearly, certain that he was after me.

I waved off the hands that made to help me, climbing easily and agilely, my body remembering only too well the feeling of climbing fire escapes, fences, trees. Before I knew it, I was nestled in a soft bit of hay, where I could listen without being seen, as the hayloft was completely walled in save for the entrance near the ladder, and Tommy poked his head up from the ladder.

"If you move that bit of hay there," he pointed, "There's a kind of window in that floorboard. You can see the entire area where they play if you lay there." And he disappeared.

I sat, my heart pounding harder with every passing moment, and at precisely nine-twelve, according to the watch I had tucked into my pocket, I heard the shouts of welcome that announced the return of Seth and the men he had travelled with.

I slid off my pile of hay and went to the floor, pushing aside prickling bits of hay until I found the hole Tommy had referred to. It must have started out as a knot, and had, over the years, widened into a hole I could quite comfortably fit my eye into. It was a bit disconcerting, this fly-on-the-wall feeling, and I found myself quite liking it.

It was a few minutes before they had gotten the horses tucked away, but before I knew it, I saw him. He was wearing dusty gray trousers and only a white undershirt, and my entire body tightened at this look at him. He really was quite a thing to marvel at.

"So what are we lookin' to play tonight, then?" he asked, picking up a guitar that was clearly his own and settling it across his knees as he sat on a low stool. This image, it was completely new, but it fit him. He just looked as though he were in his element here, with these men and this instrument.

"We've been waiting for you to come back so we could hear your songs," Tommy said casually, draped on the ground, leaning on an elbow. If I had said that sentence, Seth would have immediately known something was up, but coming from Tommy, it sounded so innocuous. I was without doubt impressed.

Seth shrugged and strummed a few notes, and though I could not clearly see his fingers from this distance, my body remembered all too clearly how it felt to be strummed by those fingers.

"Which one?" he asked, still fiddling with the knobs and strings on the guitar. Tommy shrugged his free shoulder.

"Whichever one you feel like," he said simply, and Seth nodded.

"Grab that piano," he said, and the older man who had spoken to me before moved over to the wall and rolled over an upright piano, plunking keys as he came, making sure the hay dust hadn't seeped into the mechanisms.

Everything checking out, he sat and immediately started playing a slow lilt. Clearly, he knew what to do to. Four progressions, and then, finally, I heard him, Seth, accompanied by only the piano, his guitar motionless and silent on his lap.

"_I'm writing you 'cause there's nothing left here for me to do._

_But please know that I'm trying to make up for my mistakes._

_And you're moving on with guilty memories,_

_But I was wrong to ever test us._

_This broken road is more than I can take._

_So this is the way that I'll tell you that I'll leave you alone if you want me to,_

_But I've had enough of this life alone._

_I'll give it up this time._

_I know I don't deserve to tell you that I love you._

_There's nothing in this world I'd take above you._

_I'm dead inside._

_Bring me back to life."_

His voice, oh God. My entire body had tightened, my skin prickling and pulling in, giving me goose pimples that made the hair on my arms stand on end. He sounded so...regretful. Haunted. And as a man began to drum on an overturned crate and Seth started to strum the guitar, I felt everything else falling away—every fear about this baby, every worry over where our lives would go, every hurt. His voice, his face, his shoulders and arms as they cradled that guitar, they were all I could hear and see.

"_I'll leave this note for you to read so you won't forget that all I need is you._

_It's you._

_And the world is not so clear anymore;_

_Since the day that you walked right out that door, I knew:_

_All I need is you._

_This is the way that I'll tell you that I'll leave you alone if you want me to,_

_But I've had enough of this life alone._

_I'll give it up this time._

_I know I don't deserve to tell you that I love you._

_There's nothing in this world I'd take above you._

_I'm dead inside._

_Bring me back to life."_

The music swelled, and without breathing, his neck straining, he continued, his voice strong and more powerful than I could have ever imagined.

"_It's never too late to show you who I am._

_And I know you wanna love me._

_I know you understand that I could be your missing page_."

Everything quieted, and the piano played lonely notes, and a man off to the side pulled slow strings across a fiddle, the sound seeming to pull my body from side to side.

"_Bring me back to life._

_Bring me back to life._"

The music exploded, and though it was merely a piano, a fiddle, a guitar, and an amateur drummer on a crate, it may as well have been a full symphony for how miraculous it sounded in my ears.

"_This is the way that I'll tell you that I'll leave you alone if you want me to,_

_But I've had enough of this life alone._

_I'll give it up this time._

_I know I don't deserve to tell you that I love you._

_There's nothing in this world I'll take above you._

_I'm dead inside._

_Bring me back to life."_

The fiddler pulled one last long note, and the piano clinked delicately on the highest note, and then, silence.

I lay with my eye pressed against the knot in the wood so tightly I would have been unsurprised to wake up with a black eye in the morning. My entire body was buzzing, and my heart was so tight in my chest I feared it would just deflate in there.

I had known he loved me. I had known, hadn't I, how he had felt? Right? So why did it feel as though I had been run over by a train, completely blindsided by the words he himself had written down and translated to song? Why did these words, these beautiful words about me, make me feel like weeping?

No one spoke, and Seth, who had looked down when the song had ended, his eyes trained on the floor at his feet, looked up, his expression a little disconcerted.

"Why so quiet?" he asked, his mouth quirking up a little, and I wondered who would glance up to the hayloft first. All it would take was for a few men to allow their gazes to drift toward where I lay hidden, and Seth would be up that ladder, convinced, rightly so, that something was amiss.

Before anyone could react, whether in my favor or not, I heard the barn door swing open, running feet, and then seventeen year-old Nora stood there, in front of Seth in her nightdress, her hair about her shoulders.

Seth stood. "Nora, what's wrong? What happened?" he asked, his voice authoritative, clearly worrying something was wrong at the house.

"I..." Nora stammered a bit, and looked around a little wildly, her gaze ending up on the entrance to the hayloft. She stared there for so long that Seth turned around instinctively, and I felt panic completely unwarranted by the situation flood my body in a hot rush—it's not as though he would come up and stab me to death, but the fear I felt in that moment was certainly akin to that sensation. "I...you have to come, Seth," she said desperately, and all around her, the men's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Seth, however, looked unconvinced but still concerned. "Why?" he pressed. "What's going on?"

"You just have to!" Nora cried, and then she made the slip. "You can't let her—" Nora cut herself off and gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

Seriously. Amateur mistake. I'm a blurter myself, but I'm a much better liar than that.

Tommy stood, unfolding himself from the floor and dusting himself off. "Nora, it's time for you to be in bed."

But Nora, clearly making a last-ditch effort and knowing that all subterfuge was worthless, turned back to Seth and exclaimed heatedly, "She's here! They're hiding her!"

Seth looked completely nonplussed. "What are you talking about, Nora?" he said carefully, as though speaking to a wounded and dangerous animal.

"Lydia!" she shouted, and even from this distance, I could see the physical jerk and recoil of his body at hearing my name.

"What?" Seth whispered, and looked around to his men. "Is this...What is she talking about?"

Tommy turned to a motionless Seth, who was standing as though petrified, his entire body rigid. His back was to me, and I could not see his face, but I imagine he had pasted on his poker face, a blank, dangerous stare, one that even that hateful Nora couldn't dare respond to. She stood frozen, and Seth ignored her and looked to Tommy.

"Explain." The word was low, his voice a command, and the tone immediately transported me back to the hospital, where Seth had explained to us that all you have to do to force someone to obey you is to leave no room for them to say no.

Tommy sighed, and he opened his mouth as though to speak, but seemed to think better of it. His eyes flicked to the hayloft, and as every other man's eye was drawn to it, Seth turned around, and yes, he did indeed have his poker face on.

"What am I..." Seth trailed off, and his mask slipped, his mouth dropping open just slightly. I sighed and sat up, losing sight of them all, and wrapped my arms around my legs, trying to breathe. I managed an adequate breath and stood, walking on shaking legs over to the entrance to the loft.

And then I was looking down upon the scene, and Seth, his eyes widening, moved forward automatically. He didn't say a word as I climbed as nimbly as possible down the ladder, nor did he come to the foot of it to help me off. I could feel his eyes—and everyone else's—burning into my back as I climbed down. Let's not pretend here that I wasn't also extremely embarrassed at the fact that the seat of my pants was tightening around my ass as I climbed backward, and all these men could see it.

So ridiculously awkward.

I reached the ground and turned around, my calves pressing into the first rung of the ladder.

"What—" Seth's voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat. "What are you—"

"I think you know why I'm here, Seth," I said softly, and was proud of my voice for not shaking, because my hands most certainly were.

Seth's brows contracted, and he cocked his head just slightly. "I don't..."

"She's lying!" Nora burst out, and Seth and I both looked to her. "She's a liar! I saw her letter!"

"What letter?" Seth demanded, his voice going hard at the edges, and my heart absolutely plummeted. What letter? _What letter_? What the actual fuck did _that _mean?

Nora fell silent, her cheeks flaming, and suddenly, I understood. "You little sneak," I hissed, stepping next to Seth without even realizing it. "You stole it!" I felt rage flood my veins. "You stole it!" I yelled, my entire body straining in anger. "How dare you! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I vaguely saw the eyes of the men flicker with surprise at my language, but Seth didn't even look at me, his gaze was so tight onto Nora, and come on, he'd heard worse from my mouth, much worse. "Nora, what did you do?" he asked, and though he did not yell, his voice sent a shiver down my spine, making my shoulder blades contract.

Nora looked around for a moment, then seemed to throw sense and caution to the wind. "I saw your letters to her in your room," she said, and her voice was tearful. "You never sent any of them. I know what she did to you. And when I was passing mail out, I saw one from..." she looked to me, hate in her small eyes. "From her. I couldn't let you have it. She's a liar! She's just trying to hurt you again!" Nora was near hysterics, and I stared at her, feeling fury at her actions, but also, a tiny smidgen of pity at how a young girl could have become so obsessed with a man so as to go so far.

Seth stared at Nora for a moment longer, then closed his eyes and shook his head. "Nora," he said gently, still with that same don't-frighten-the-wounded-animal-tone, "You've got this all wrong."

"No, I don't!" Nora insisted, but her voice was weak.

"Yes," Seth said, and he turned to Tommy. "Get her home." Tommy nodded once, and once he had led a slightly struggling Nora out into the night, the other men followed, leaving Seth and I alone for the first time in months.

He was looking at the door, his eyes on the way everyone had exited, and I briefly considered following suit, just turning tail and scrambling away. This was already too bizarre a situation for me to handle. Instead, I stood absolutely still, as though maybe, if I didn't move or make a sound, he wouldn't be able to see me, and we could forget this ever happened.

From my right, though I could only see a blur of him in my peripheral vision (that stool about five feet in front of me was looking pretty mesmerizing), he spoke, his voice just slightly shaky. "You wrote me a letter?"

Without turning my head or making any sort of movement, I responded, my voice stronger than his, and just slightly (I'm ashamed to admit,) taunting, "You write me letters you don't send?"

He sighed, and finally moved. He sat on the very stool I had focused on, rightly guessing that I would not move to look at him, and he must insert himself in my field of vision.

"I've written you letters ever since I made foreman," he said softly, and I adjusted my gaze just slightly, to really take him in. His cheeks were just slightly darker than was normal, and I could assume that he was not only overwhelmed at this turn of events, but deeply mortified that I had, finally, heard what he had to say about me.

Pride is a big thing for Seth Conlon, and my listening in on his most private thoughts and feelings about me pretty much wiped it all out, laid him bare for me to do with what I willed. It was one thing, I'm sure, for him to share these songs with his men, his friends, who would only know me as an anonymous woman, or perhaps even a fictional one. It was quite another for the woman in question, me, to be a member of the audience.

"You've written me letters for over a year?" I repeated, feeling another swoop of sadness fill my abdomen at the picture of loneliness such a thing painted. "And you didn't send even one?"

He didn't look at me, but off to the side just slightly. He pursed his lips and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in a way that made the muscles in his arms bulge slightly, his shoulders firm and wide. "Writing to you has been better than keeping a journal, I guess," he said finally, so softly I almost couldn't hear him.

I didn't know what to say to that. It was a huge honor, and a huge responsibility, to have someone trust you with their innermost thoughts, whether they ever intended you to actually read them or not. For him to imagine telling me about his life, his feelings, his fears, triumphs, and defeats, it was...it was overpowering, actually.

I didn't speak for a long moment, and neither did he. Then, he flicked his eyes to me, and, since I was intently studying his face, our eyes met, and I felt his eyes pierce my skin like a hot current, like a shock that comes from walking across a carpet in your stockings and touching your fingers to a doorknob—a jolt, jarring and slightly painful.

"What'd your letter say?" he asked, folding his hands together.

Oh, no. No, no, no. I had slaved over that letter. It was _perfect_. It was eloquent and rational. I would never in a million years be able to recreate that letter in my own words, not now when I was barely keeping myself from crying. I felt, with all these hormones raging about in my body, that I was forever close to tears, and all of this drama was not helping in the slightest. Soon, I would be sobbing uncontrollably like a crazy person, and then where would we be?

"I'm sure Nora kept it. You should really get it back," I said, and was a bit dismayed at how cold and hard my voice sounded. I was not doing this right. I had not wanted to come in with guns blazing, being a bitch.

Better a bitch than a sobbing mess, I suppose, though who knows?

Seth considered me for a moment, then stood swiftly, his body unfolding and snapping upright. "Well, come on then," he said firmly, and, like a puppet on strings, I followed.

I really must perfect this "no room for no," thing. As an expectant mother, it would really come in handy down the road.

We walked quickly to the house, silently, Seth a few steps ahead of me. He did not look back to make sure I was following. Of course I was following.

He strode up the porch steps and knocked twice on the wooden side of the screen door. "Come in," Cathy's voice called, full of an agitation I had not yet heard.

We entered the house and stepped in the sitting room, where an extremely uncomfortable-looking Tommy stood next to the fireplace. Nora was crying softly into her hands, folded into a chair, and Cathy and Bobby were staring at Seth and me, Cathy looking concerned and Bobby on the edge of angry.

"What in the hell is goin' on here, Seth? Tommy brings my little girl in here and she's a cryin' mess about you and this girl," Bobby said, standing and tossing the newspaper he had been reading to the floor.

Tommy shot a look to Seth, who nodded once, and Tommy took his opportunity to hightail it out of the house. Honestly, I'm surprised there wasn't fire and smoke on the bottoms of his shoes. Once the door had slammed behind him, Seth spoke, his voice calm and neutral.

"It seems Nora went into my house, into my room, and found some unsent letters I had written," he began, and as I watched him, I noticed straightaway that though his voice was kind, his neck was pulsing, his jaw working. I could, from slightly behind him, see a nerve going in his shoulder blade. Seth Conlon was absolutely irate. "She read them, and when a letter came for me from Lydia, who I had written my letters to, she took it so I didn't read it."

"Nora!" Cathy breathed, moving to stand over her daughter. "You did not!"

Nora looked up, her face streaked with tears, and had I been a better person, I would have felt sorrier for her. Sure, I suppose I felt something akin to pity, because it really was pathetic, but mostly, I just felt rage at this little bitch for thinking she could mess about with people's lives in that way.

"I had to, Mama!" she insisted, her voice high. "He can't—I—I didn't want—"

Cathy's kind face clouded, and she bent over her daughter, speaking more firmly than I had yet heard. "You have no business with Seth, Nora, do you hear me? His life is none of your concern. You did a terrible thing, and hurt two people. Now, I assume you have the letter?"

Nora, looking cowed and humiliated, nodded. "Get it then," her mother ordered, and Nora immediately got up and ran up the stairs.

Cathy turned to us, her expression apologetic and guilty. "I'm so very sorry, Seth," she said sincerely. "I knew she had a crush on you. I should have put an end to it before it got this far."

"Should have taken a belt to her backside once or twice as a child," Bobby put in, finally adding his two cents. "I'm going up to bed, Cathy. I'll trust it to you to put some sense in that girl's foolish head."

Cathy nodded, and Bobby left, murmuring, "Night, miss," to me and placing a fatherly hand on Seth's tightly held arm as he passed.

"I just don't know what to do with her," Cathy lamented, and my heart went out to her.

"Don't be too hard on her," I said, surprising myself. "I thought I knew everything at seventeen, too."

"Problem is, you really _did_ know everything, and you made sure everyone knew it," Seth said under his breath, and I looked to the side, unable to completely suppress a smile.

Cathy gave me a sly look, and just then, Nora reentered the room, my letter clutched in her hand. It was still in its envelope, the seal torn open. She handed it wordlessly to Seth, then turned around, her face a flaming red. Her mother took her gently but firmly by the arm and walked her back upstairs, leaving Seth and I alone.

"Should I read this, or do you just wanna tell me?" Seth asked, looking over my handwriting on the envelope.

I didn't even have to think about it. "Read it," I said, and he pulled the folded letter out of the envelope, his fingers fumbling just slightly.

What did he think was in there? What, in his mind, would be important enough for me to come all the way up here when a response failed to come? When _he_ failed to come? The only thing I could think of would be a declaration of my love for him, and though I had, in the letter, said I loved him, there had been no promise of anything, no revelation about wanting a life with him.

He unfolded the letter, and I was overtaken with a wave of nervousness so intense it bordered on nausea. I turned my head to look out the front window, unable to see anything but the reflection of the room. I watched the fire in the glass's reflection, trying to block out the fact that Seth was, at that moment, discovering my pregnancy.

I knew he had reached the pivotal point at his sharp intake of breath. I could feel his eyes shoot to me, hear the slight crunch of the paper as his fingers tightened on it. He read the rest quickly, and I saw, in the reflection, the letter flutter to the floor as he reached out to take my arm, pulling me closer to him, forcing me to face him.

Like a coward, like the complete and utter failure I was, I shut my eyes against his face. He did not speak, and after a few seconds, I mustered all the courage I possessed (not much, clearly) and opened my eyes.

His face had gone pale under his tan, all the color draining from his cheeks, and his eyes were wide and searching. His breathing was shallow and harsh, and I could practically hear the blood rushing around in his veins, all erratic and out of control from the beating of his heart.

"Is this—" his voice seemed blocked, and he cleared his throat to try again. "This is true?"

I shook my head just slightly in a bit of disbelief, my brows contracting automatically. "Of course it's true," I said, and was pleased to find that the hard, harsh edge had faded from my tone.

"You're pregnant." His voice seemed to have returned, and he sounded completely shell-shocked.

"Yes," I replied, trying valiantly to keep my voice gentle, though what I really wanted to do was shout, "Would you just accept this already?" but who was I kidding? How long had I walked around in a daze that day? Hours?

His eyes, seemingly of their own accord, seemed to zip down my body to rest on my abdomen, on the spot where our baby lay.

"It's mine?" he said, and then hesitated. "I mean, you're...you're sure it's—" his voice seemed to fail him again, and I realized, with a look at his face, that he wasn't hopeful my baby wasn't his, he was _fearful_.

This man, this man who never intended to become a father, was afraid. Not afraid that he would be a father, but afraid that he _wouldn't_, that the baby I carried was not really his own.

"It's yours," I said softly. "It could only be yours. I didn't..." I shook my head. "With—" now it was my turn to have my voice cut out on me. I could not yet say Ben's name to Seth. I was sure I would start to cry. "I didn't. Just with you."

Seth stared at me for a long minute, and I returned his gaze as long as I could, which turned out to be about ten seconds, before I had to look elsewhere. My eyes wound up on the visible skin at his collarbone, and I drank in that dark, soft skin with my eyes.

"I can't believe this," he said finally, and stepped forward, his arm outstretched. "Can I...?" He waved his hand at my abdomen, and I had my first-ever experience of someone wanting to put their hand on my belly. In the coming months, I would start to feel as though that part of my body was public property, as people seem to think it their right to touch a pregnant woman's stomach.

"Yes..." I said hesitantly, and Seth pressed his hand against my stomach. I had not yet felt anything more than flutters from the baby yet, though even those tiny movements had made me gasp in surprise. At first, I had been unable to distinguish them from regular movements in my stomach, air bubbles or hunger pangs, but they had started at sixteen weeks, and in the last two weeks, I had become more adept at identifying them.

It sounds so corny and clichéd, but the second Seth's had pressed firm against my abdomen, I felt a teeny, tiny flutter. By Seth's face, I could tell her hadn't felt a thing, but I certainly had.

"I can't really—Are you wearing a corset?" he asked, pulling his hand away to peer at my stomach.

I put my hands over myself. "Yes, I am," I said defensively.

"You're gonna squash him!" he burst out, sounding indignant, and I bristled.

"I most certainly am not going to squash her," I returned, and he looked into my face, a tiny smirk on his lips.

"Her, huh?" He said, taking a tiny step closer to me.

"You think I need to bring another Seth Conlon into the world?" I shot back, and he grinned before swooping down on me to pick me up. He twirled me once, and I was awarded with the beautiful, joyous sound of his laugh before he set me down.

"Lydia, we should—" I held up a hand. I could tell by his eyes where that sentence was going, and I wasn't having it.

"Don't, Seth," I said firmly. "Don't say get married. Please, do not say get married."

He immediately looked as though I had slapped him in the face (you know, again).

"I said in that letter that I didn't...that I wasn't sure of...us, or our relationship. That hasn't changed in a month," I said, and did my best to keep my voice as mild as possible.

Seth's jaw clenched, and he stepped backward, away from me. "So what is it, Lydia? You still don't trust me? You still wishing you could have Ben?"

Now I was the one to recoil as though struck. "Excuse me?" I said, not so much warning him to change his sentence as I was daring him to repeat it.

He did not disappoint me. "Ben is dead, Lydia," he said, and his eyes darkened.

"I know that," I said, and my voice creaked with tears as I struggled not to let him make me fall apart.

"Do you? Because you can't have him," Seth spat, and I ached with hurt, not just for me, but for him, too. I knew when Seth lashed out in this way it was because he was deeply, truly wounded.

"Seth, stop," I pleaded, and took his wrist. He yanked it away, eyes blazing.

"What d'you want here, Lydia? If you don't wanna be with me, why are you even here?"

"Do you want me to go?" I countered, my voice rising. "I can go. I can go back to the City and you can miss out on all this, if that's what you want." My words were becoming harshly and deliberately enunciated, like they always did when I got angry. "I didn't want you to miss this like your father did," I finished, and though I had sincerely meant for it to come out softly, gently, it came out more as a spat.

Even though it didn't come out as though I had intended, the affect was the same. Seth's eyes clouded briefly with pain, then cleared. When he spoke, his voice was softer, calmer. "What d'you wanna do, then? Do you wanna stay here?" he asked, and I hesitated.

"Well, I—Is that even possible?" I asked, and Seth shrugged in a way that he clearly meant to be nonchalant, but came off looking forced.

"I have a house on the property. You wouldn't even have to share a room with me," he said, and in his voice, I could hear how badly he wanted me to stay, though he would never, in a thousand years, given a million chances, actually ask me to.

"I can't stay forever," I said, "I'd have to kind of alternate between here and the City."

He shrugged again. "You could do that," he said, and finally looked at me. His gaze was steady, his expression unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes, and I could not seem to do anything but nod slowly.

"Okay."

I immediately procured the phone in the office of the house to call home, praying that at least one of the girls was awake. Panic answered after the second ring, and I, perched on the desk in the semi-dark room, alone, as Seth had gone ahead to his house, filled her in on all the gory details.

When I got to the part about Nora's deception, she reacted extremely gratifyingly, gasping in shock and breathing, "That little cow!"

I finished with how I had agreed to stay on, at least for the time being, and asked her what she thought I should do, exactly, about moving between Millbrook and Queens. She hesitated for so long, I started to worry our call had been dropped.

"You could just stay, you know," she said slowly. "It's not like we'd have to tell anyone you were gone. Your checks would still be sent to the house, and I could mail them to you."

I felt my heart leap slightly at this suggestion, but tried to play it off. "That's not fair, Kass," I protested. "It's more work for you and Marie."

"Lydia, you do great work, but do you really think I can't add as well as you? Or that we can't read receipts?"

"Wow, that makes me feel great, thanks. Really irreplaceable," I said, laughing a little.

"Oh, stop," Panic shot back, chuckling a little herself. "Of course you're irreplaceable. But not for your math skills." She paused for a moment. "There will be a place here for you as long as you want it. But I think you need to do this. You should just stay. And," she continued as I opened my mouth to interrupt, knowing instinctively that I was about to come up with some other excuse. "You can always visit whenever you want. It's not as though there aren't trains you can take."

I sighed. She was right, of course. She always was. How could I run back and forth from here to the City pregnant? How could I alternate a week in my home life and a week here, with Seth? If I were torn between two worlds, how could I ever really know which one I fit in?

"You need to experience what life would be like with Seth," Panic said gently, echoing my thoughts. "Otherwise, you can't know what you're choosing."

"You're right," I conceded heavily. "You're always fucking right."

"Of course I am," she laughed, then her voice sobered. "We'll sure miss you, though."

I was instantly choked up. I sniffled a little, nodding. "I'll miss you too. All of you, but you most."

"Well, I appreciate being your favorite," she said smugly, and we both laughed.

"Can you tell everyone?" I asked, and she assured me she would. We arranged for her to send more of my clothing and belongings, and hung up.

Seth had given me very easy directions to his house: Go through the orchard, and you're there. So I walked the path in the dark, passing by the fragrant trees, and came upon his house quite suddenly. It was a tiny wooden cabin, the wood dark and masculine, with a small porch around the door, just large enough for two wooden chairs.

I walked up to the front door, momentarily at a loss. Did I knock? That seemed a little ridiculous, but barging in on someone else's home also seemed a little improper.

I was still standing there, flummoxed, when the door swung open. "Did you plan to stand there all night?" Seth asked, showing me in.

"I most certainly did not," I answered with as much dignity as I could.

"Looked like it," he said, and then, all snappy (read: lame) remarks used up, we stood there for a long moment, both of us looking unsure of what to do next.

"I brought your bags and put them in the guest room," he said finally, and I nodded. This was terribly discomfiting.

I looked around the tiny living room, at the plaid patterned couch, large brown rug, and the one large painting on the wall, which seemed to be nothing but swirls of paint that matched the couch: red, green, cobalt blue, yellow, and brown. There was an end table, a full bookshelf, and not much else.

The kitchen, off to the left, was even smaller, and seemed to hold only the barest of basics. "There's running water," he supplied helpfully, and I nodded wordlessly.

"I guess we should go to bed, then," he said, and my neck cricked, I turned my head so fast. He looked a little sad as he added, "I, uh, didn't mean together."

"I know that," I said softly, still feeling like I was getting this off on the completely wrong foot. Maybe it would have been a better idea to sleep in the main house, although...this was a farm, and farms seem to have a frighteningly large amount of sharp, blunt, and likewise deadly tools around, and I was not entirely sure that sleeping in the same house as Nora would have been the best way to survive until morning.

He turned to go into his bedroom, the one to the left, apparently, and I called out, my heart beating a little overly fast, "I talked to Kassidy. We kind of...decided I should just stay here, not worry about having to go back to the City on a timeframe."

Seth didn't turn around immediately. His head raised, and his spine seemed to straighten. He stood that way for moment, the only movement I could detect in his body the slight expansion of his ribs as he drew in breath. "So you're staying, then," he said finally, softly, and finally turned.

I looked into his face, and could almost not read what was written there, no matter how much of an expert I was in his facial expressions. His face was completely blank, save for one tiny detail: he had taken the inside of his cheek, just to the side of his lip, into his teeth, biting down gently on the skin as he waited. It was a habit I had noticed, a long time ago, that he showed whenever he was feeling particularly hopeful.

"Yes, I'm staying," I said finally, and he relaxed his face.

His body spasmed slightly, as though it wanted to come to me, but his mind was just barely holding back his physical impulses. "I'm..." he cleared his throat. "I'm glad."

"I am, too," I said, and was more than a little surprised to find that I truly was.

He went into his room without another word, and I headed to the bathroom, where he had already placed my toiletries, lined up on a table next to his. I stared down at the bottles and jars (mine far outnumbered his), marveling at how intimate it was, all our various bathroom items grouped together.

I washed my face and moved into my new bedroom, which needed a definite color revival, but was clean as a pin and had a comfortable-looking bed, to remove my clothing and pull on my nightgown. I briefly considered knocking on Seth's door to say goodnight, but a wave of exhaustion so intense I almost fell over overtook me, and I climbed into the indeed comfortable bed, snuggling down into the covers, and fell asleep immediately.

I was awoken some time later by the creak of bedsprings and a sinking to my right. My eyes flew open, and my hands clutched at the bedclothes. I was, for a split second, utterly convinced that Nora had completely flipped her lid and come to club me to death.

But, once again, the would-be murderer on my bed was only Seth. I looked over to him. "Must you always scare the shit out of me?" I said, running a hand over my face, my voice croaky with sleep.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't even be in here."

"Then why are you?" I asked, more curious than defensive.

"I don't know," he said and ran his hand across his mouth, looking frustrated. "Doesn't it feel..." he trailed off and looked down at me. "Oh, fuck it," he muttered, and stood. "I'm sorry; go back to sleep."

"No, wait," I said, my voice a little high, and I sat up, grabbing hold of his forearm as he stood and pulling him back down. "It feels weird, yes. This whole thing feels weird. We..." I trailed off, then laughed a bit bitterly, pushing both hands through my hair. "We don't ever do anything in the right order. We have sex before we know each other. We have a baby when we're not even..." I shook my head. "It's all so messed up."

He nodded. "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page," he said, and stood again, moving to go. I let him reach the door before I whispered his name, and he turned.

"I'm sorry, too," I said softly, glad for the darkness, so I didn't have to see his face. "I shouldn't have tricked you into playing that song. It was a dirty thing to do."

He didn't answer, just stood there in the doorway for a long moment. He let out a long breath and turned around, heading out the door. As he left, I just barely caught his last words of the night, for Seth Conlon usually had to have the last word: "It's all true."

AN: I feel I should explain. I have never been a huge fan of songs inserted into stories, unless it is specifically a song-fic, which I myself have written plenty of. However, this song has been the inspiration for this ENTIRE story, and I felt I owed it to the song, and to John Vesely, who IS Secondhand Serenade (yes, all those vocals you hear are one man), and who wrote the song, even though he'll never know or care that I love it so much.


	21. Chapter 19

It was fully light out when I woke up the next morning, and the light seemed a bit off for morning, without that tiny hint of dew and fog that morning light carries in it. The light streaming (people always say that: streaming. But it's such an apt word, really. Especially for that day, when the light was quite literally swirling into the room, so bright I could see each dust particle in the air) into the room strong and vibrant, much more like afternoon sun than anything else.

I struggled upright, my body feeling heavy, but my mind clear and alert. I peered over at the clock on the bedside table and reared back in surprise. It was 12:17. In the afternoon.

When in the world had I last slept as late as this? When in the world had I last slept past seven in the morning?

I slid out of bed and moved cautiously to the door, pressing my hand against it briefly before gathering my courage to push it open. The house was, of course, empty, Seth's bedroom door wide open, as though inviting me in.

Okay, I know. But come on. If he had wanted me to stay out, he could have at least closed the damn door, right? Right. Obviously.

I fairly crept into his room, as though suspecting booby traps to trip me up. Nothing, of course, and I moved, feeling a teensy bit guilty, but mostly just curious, to peek into his drawers, checking the window to make absolutely certain the shades were closed.

I pulled open the top drawer of his dresser to find...socks. I even moved them around a bit, and nothing. No letters. Oh, Lord, of course that's what I was after.

The other three drawers held only clothes, also, and though I was disappointed, I found myself running my hands over his undershirts, feeling their fabric under my fingers.

There was a desk in the corner of the room, and I moved to it, pulling open one of two drawers in the side. Pencils, papers, but nothing that looked like it had anything to me. Mostly notes on livestock and crops, or reminders to "Go to bank Friday."

The second drawer was filled with the same things.

I went to the wardrobe and looked through his shirts, vests, coats, and shoes, seeing nothing of interest, although the blood-red shirt he had worn on Christmas Eve was there, and I held my hand to its shoulder, gripping the hanger underneath, for a long moment.

One place left. The bedside table. I went over to it, only to find that stupid, fucking, moronic thing didn't have a goddamned drawer. I'm sorry, but what in the hell? As I made to turn, though, something caught my eye: the candle I had given him for Christmas. It was placed there, right next to where he slept each night, a box of matches next to it, the wick clearly having been lit multiple times, the candle itself partially melted and out of shape. I inhaled, and—yes—I could smell the scent of the candle in the air, a spice of cinnamon mixed with a scent that always reminded me of birthdays, how the air smelled after you blew out the candles and the smoke swirled into the air.

I straightened and stood next to his bed in only my nightgown, my bare feet on the smooth wooden floor, feeling an enormous feeling of being let down. There's nothing worse than snooping only to find absolutely nothing, especially when you know there's something juicy to be found.

Heaving a huge, put-upon sigh of long-suffering, I made to leave the room, crossing the floor, figuring I may as well have a bath and get myself really, truly cleaned up. As I crossed by the foot of the bed, I felt it—a tiny unevenness in the wood, a small imperfection that I would have not noticed had I not been barefoot. I immediately stopped and crouched down, and there it was: a loose floorboard.

Of course there was a loose floorboard. Or, well, rather, of course Seth had _created_ a loose floorboard. Leaders tended to have them—we tend to be, as a group, secretive and private, and I know for a fact he'd used his in Brooklyn rather frequently, though we never discussed it. I had seen him glancing at the spot on the floor where his was countless times, and could only imagine what had been in there.

I stuck my fingers in the crack and pulled, lifting the board easily and placing it gently on the floor next to my feet. And there they were: a stack of letters. I pulled them out to see that each and every one of them had my name in the header. As I flipped back, I realized that the letters he had written before he had come home, before he had learned my name, were addressed to Gleam, which made me feel both strange and nostalgic.

I almost missed it completely; I was so interested in the letters. But as I made to replace the floorboard, I saw it. A scrap of paper that had been placed underneath the letters. I could see Seth's handwriting on that paper, too:

_Lydia,_

_Just put them back when you're done._

_Seth_

I stared at his little note, then let out a burst of disbelieving laughter. Oh, God, who was I kidding? He didn't shut his door because he knew I would have come in anyway. And he didn't lock the letters away or remove them completely because he wanted me to read them.

I managed to hold off on reading the letters until after I had taken what was quite possibly the fastest bath I'd ever experienced, applied my cosmetics with a quick, practiced hand, and shook out my hair before dressing in a white cotton dress with elbow-length sleeves and satin bows at the cuffs and my left hip. I left my feet bare and went outside, moving one of the chairs into the sun, where I settled down to read and let my hair dry in the warm light.

The first letter he had ever written me was dated January 3, 1902, and I wondered what I had been doing when he had sat down to pen this, where I had been, who I had been with. January of '02 had been before anything had even transpired between Ben and I, back when Seth's return would have much less complicated, would have perhaps been less tragic, less of a catalyst for so much disaster. I wish I could say that I remembered a strange feeling on that day, a niggling of being thought of, but I didn't. I couldn't remember that day at all, and so it must have been nothing but a normal, anonymous day. Strange, really, how that could be.

"_Gleam,"_ it read, "_I wish I had a name for you. A real name. I wish that when I pictured you in my head, I didn't have to call you by a name that wasn't really yours. I feel like those newsy names, they keep us anonymous, and only if we know each other's real names do we have any real connection. It's ridiculous—I feel like you're the one I'm the most connected to, except maybe Bourbon, and I have no idea what your name is. I know his name, of course; Ben. I wonder sometimes where he is, if you've stayed in touch with him. I don't know why you would, but I always wonder._

_It's been two weeks since I was offered the foreman job, and when I took it, I didn't think it would be like this. The job is great, don't get me wrong. But since I became a leader again, it's like I slipped back into that old world, where you were always close by. I feel closer to you now than I have in the last two years, but I don't know a thing about who you are now. It terrifies me that you could even be dead, and I wouldn't even know, though I can't really believe that. I have the feeling that if something happened to you, I would know, that the world would feel different._

_I'm glad I left. This is a good life for me. But these days, all I can see when I look at anything or anyone is your face. I wish I could believe I could go back, find you, and fix all the mistakes I made. I wish I could believe that there's a chance you still loved me. _

_I can still barely believe you loved me in the first place. I didn't do anything to deserve it. I'd like to think I'm a better man now, that I've grown up and become the man you needed me to be. _

_But I don't think I could stomach going back and having you hate me, like I'm sure you do now, so I suppose these letters I'll never send will have to be enough. Hopefully with these letters I can trick myself into believing you still think about me_."

I stared down at the letter, marveling at how open he was, how honest. But of course he would be—everyone, even men like Seth, feels the same emotions, has the same kinds of fears and vulnerabilities. Here, in these letters that he had thought no one would ever read, there was no reason for him to shield himself like he did so very often in his real life.

Throughout the next letters, written very nearly every other day, I read about his life, and learned about the men of the farm, which ones lived on the property, and which ones lived in town with wives and families. I learned about crops he had planted, animals he had bought, and experienced his sadness at losing a man the previous summer during an accident involving a nasty piece of farm equipment. The last letter before he had returned to the City was dated December 20, the day before he had arrived in the City, two days before I had seen him for the first time.

"_Gleam_," it said, the writing a little messier, more rushed than most of the others, "_I leave tomorrow morning. I keep telling myself I'm going back to take care of my mother, to be with her while she dies, but the truth is, I'm going back to find you. I don't know how long it'll take to find you, but if you're still in that city, I think I'll know. I don't think it'd feel the same if you weren't in it. _

_I'm scared. Even writing it down makes me feel like a pathetic moron, but there it is. I'm scared to see you, and scared of what will happen when I do. I'm scared I won't find you, and will have to come back here without any answered questions. _

_I can't even think of what I have to do with my mother. I don't know what to do. I don't...I haven't thought about her in a long time, at least not on purpose, but I have to admit that when I see little boys in town with mothers who stoop down in the middle of the walk to hug them, kiss them smack on the lips, it makes me...it hurts like a punch to the gut, because I can't imagine having had that._

_I never told you about my mother. I guess if I find you I'll have to tell you. Knowing you, you'll beat it out of me whether I want to tell you about it or not. _

_I _want _you to know. I don't know how to tell you, or tell anyone, what she did to me, or how it made me feel. How do you tell someone your own mother hates you? How do you tell anyone that her dying feels like being released from a prison? _

_How can I possibly tell you that despite all that, a part of me wants her to care about me? How do you tell someone something that weak?_

_I have to find you. I can't go back and not at least see you. Even if all you do is smack me in the face, it'll be enough_."

And then, the very next letter, written January 7, 1903, not soon after he had left, another letter.

"_Lydia, _

_I can't even tell you how good it feels to be able to write that down. That's about the only thing that feels good right now. I feel like I'm not even alive right now, like I'm barely awake, just kind of stumbling through my days. _

_I can't believe that after everything we went through last month, that I left again. I can't fucking believe that I almost had you, that I almost had you loving me, and then..._

_He's dead. _Ben is dead_. The words on the paper don't look real. It's like those words can't make sense. But...it has to make sense, because it's real. He's dead, and when he died, he took you with him. _

_I can't even believe I'm thinking something so horrible, but I don't think you'd disagree that when Ben died, he made himself irresistible. A tragic hero. You lost him, and it made you realize how much you loved him. _

_And I can't even hate him, because you can't hate a ghost, let alone Ben. Ben is completely impossible to hate, which makes it all worse. He won you by dying, and I can't even resent him for it. _

_I can't even resent you, as much as I want to. I wish I could just write you off, decide I'm better off without someone like you, someone who would play with me like you did. I wish I could even be mad. But I can't, because I forced you to toy with me, forced you to participate in this game that didn't end the way any of us expected it. I can't even be mad because I deserved it. I played you, too, so long ago, and I guess this is my just reward for having hurt you. You got to hurt me._

_I wish I were a better person, because if I was, I would say that I would take it all back if Ben could live, would let him be with you as long as he was okay, as long as he was alive. But I don't think that's true. If it came down to a choice between you and Ben, I would always choose you. I think he would have done the same."_

I struggled to take that in, to process the contents of that letter, where he as good as admitted that, though he cared deeply about Ben, and was as shaken and affected by his death as anyone, that he wouldn't take back loving me, playing the game to win me, even if it had meant that Ben could have survived.

I was instantly put off, immediately bristled with hurt, but slowly, it came to me—he was right. Would Ben have taken back anything he had done if the tables had been turned and it had been Seth who had died? I don't think he would have. I think, in the end, Ben too would have felt that way, and so how could I fault Seth?

There were a few more letters, fewer now than the previous year. It seemed that writing to me had become too difficult, and so this year's letters only numbered about once a month. February's was short, one line: _"I don't know what to say here anymore, because I can't even think of what I would say to your face_."

March's letter, dated a few days before I had discovered this pregnancy, was also short, but angry. "_I want to hate you. I want to go back to the City and shake you, tell you off for being so stubborn, for being so stupid. I want to make you see what's right in front of you, waiting for you_."

April's letter, the last one, was longer, and less of a rant than the previous two.

"_Lydia,_

_This is the first time I've written down what Ben said to me that day. I think about it every single day, can't seem to get his last words to me out of my head. Other than some of the things you said to me, I've never been able to recall someone's words verbatim. They're the reason I've done all this, after all, and I hope I made the right choice. _

_If it had been anyone else, I would have worried about being sabotaged at the last moment, but it was Ben. Ben, who would never have wanted you to be unhappy, and if you really had to be without him, forever, would have wanted us to work this out. I have to believe that, otherwise I have no idea where to go from here._

_I'm all out of order here. _

_I don't think I've ever felt so much dread in my life as when I walked into that room. I expected him to kick me out, but when he saw me, he actually kind of smiled. I couldn't believe how broken he looked in that bed. I felt like I had been kicked in the throat, like I could hardly breathe. _

_I didn't know what to say, and I don't think he did either, so I just stood there, holding onto the foot of the bed, looking at him. I don't need to write down how he looked—I can't get it out of my head, and I'm sure you can't either._

_I wasn't in there for so long because we had such a long talk. It was because neither one of us knew what to do, and so we did nothing. It was at least fifteen minutes before he broke the silence._

"_When I die, she'll shut you out." I went to sit at the side of the bed and didn't say anything. I knew he wanted to tell me this, needed me to understand. "She's gonna decide that she's in love with me after I'm dead. If this were you it'd be the same. She'll shut you out."_

"_How do you know?" I asked him, and he actually kind of laughed, which for some reason made me sad. I'd heard him laugh so many times, and couldn't believe that would probably be my last time._

"_You know it too, Conlon," he said, "You know she will. She's gonna decide she's in love with me and that she can't be with you because it wouldn't be right."_

"_So what do I do, then?" _

"_Let her. Don't force her to come out of it. Don't _make_ her do anything. She'll never listen to you if you try and tell her what's good for her, Lydia never does. Let her shut you out. Leave if you have to. Give her a way to get a hold of you, and just wait. I promise you that one day, that girl will see how much she loves you come running to you."_

"_How do you know?" I asked again. I was actually kind of awed at how much knowledge of you he seemed to have, so much more than I did._

"_Because that girl will always love you," he said simply, and that was it. "I'm sorry we spent all this time battling it out like this. If I could go back, well..."_

"_Neither of us would do it any differently," I said, grinning, and he managed a smile. _

"_No," he agreed, "But I am sorry we didn't get to...I'm just sorry. I really do love you, man."_

_That almost broke me right there. I would have thought hearing a guy say that to me would have felt awkward, but it didn't. It just felt...I can't even describe it. It was just...right._

_He started to cough, and I could feel him starting to fade, and knew you needed to get in there, so I did what anyone would have done for a brother: I leaned down to hug him, and for the first and only time in my life, laid a kiss on a man's cheek and told him I loved him. _

_And that was it. He was right. You shut me out—I could see it in your face at the hospital: you were already pulling away. After he died and you did everything you could to push me away, it made me feel like I was dying, too. _

_I needed you. He was my friend. He was my right hand, and he...he had been the only constant in my life for six years, the only guy I always knew I could count on. We had drifted, yeah, but it still hurt. _

_I know you were hysterical and sad, and didn't mean to do it, but I didn't just want to be there for you to make you feel better. I wanted to be there because_ I_ needed _you,_ too. _

_But I let you shut me out, even though it damn near killed me. And I left. _

_I can't believe I left. I'm giving it another three months, and if you don't make contact with me, I can't wait anymore. I'll have to go back and find you, and fuck what Ben said, or what you want._

_I need you, and you'll just have to deal with it._"

In a daze, I got up, my hair dry now, the top of my head fairly stinging with the heat from the sun, and went inside, placing the letters back in the floor. I stood in Seth's room for a long moment, not moving, not blinking, my eyes out of focus.

In my bare feet, I ran out the door and through the orchard, my skirts clinging to my legs as I ran. I burst through the other side of the orchard, pushing leaves aside, and was met with a, "Jesus Christ!" as I nearly collided with the very man I was looking for.

"What's wrong?" he said, catching my expression, and I couldn't even answer. I looked down at the tools in his hands and could only assume he was on his way to fix some part of some kind of building, but I reached out and took them out of his hands, placing them on the ground and pulling him back the way I had come, still running.

He didn't even protest, just jogged along behind me, and we passed through the vacant orchard before coming upon the small yard before his house, where I stopped and turned to face him, panting.

He looked both worried and confused, looking down at me as though he didn't know what to expect.

"I read them," I said finally, and his face tightened with embarrassment.

"You found them _already_?" he asked, and I could hear a grudging respect in his voice. "What are you, some kind of magician?"

"Yes," I said impatiently waving my hand. "I...I'm so sorry," I said, and his face contracted with consternation.

"Sorry for what?" he asked, and I stepped forward, taking his forearms in my hands.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you when..." I looked away and cleared my throat. Enough. Ben deserved to be spoken of, to have his name said out loud. "When Ben died. I wasn't thinking about how you felt at all. It didn't even cross my mind, and that's just..."

His face held no anger, but his eyes flashed just briefly in memory at how I had treated him. "It's fine, Lydia," he said, placating me, but I wasn't having it.

"No, Seth," I said, taking another step forward and releasing his arms to take his face. His fingers brushed my hips, but did not seek purchase on them. I put my palms on either side of his face, feeling the stubble on his cheeks prickle the sensitive skin, felt the short hairs behind his ears on my fingertips. "It's not okay. It's terrible. I was terrible, and I'm so sorry."

He looked at me for a long moment, and I felt my stomach jump with a mix of nervousness and excitement at being so near to him, at actually having that face under my hands.

"What do you want me to say, Lydia?" he said finally, and shook his head slightly.

"I don't care what you say. Just...don't tell me it was okay, because it wasn't. It was one thing for me to be unsure of us, but it was inexcusable for me to not think of how you were feeling about Ben." I paused, remembering. "And I didn't. I don't think it once crossed my mind to make sure that you were okay."

"He was my best friend once," he said finally, and his eyes blazed. I dropped my hands, but rested them on his wrists, keeping him close to me. "Jesus, Lydia, I know you were sad, but what the fuck?" He threw up his hands and took a step back. "I fucking needed you and where the hell were you? Pushing me the fuck away, that's where."

My diaphragm was so tight I could hardly breathe. I felt absolutely monstrous, but also...a little victorious. I had forgotten what it felt like, being with this foulmouthed man who didn't spent too much time worrying about my girlish feelings to tell me when I was being an asshole.

I didn't know what else to do, so I did the only thing I could think of: I stepped forward, seizing his wrist and yanking him forward, pulling his arm so that he had no choice but to put it around me, and put my arms around his neck, forcing him to bend slightly so I could press our cheeks together, one hand on the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry, Seth," I said again, and he sighed and tightened both arms, pulling me to him. I could feel the heat from his sun-warmed clothes through my dress, feel the sunlight in his hair, on the back of his neck. We stayed that way for a long while, and when we pulled away, he searched my face.

"I have to get back to work. I brought in some stuff for us to have dinner here, if you want," he said, sounding a little unsure.

"Dinner is good," I said, my voice soft. "I'll make it."

He nodded and looked me over again. I looked back at him, feeling steadier, and took in, once again, his strong face, the angles of his features. He turned to go, but stopped before he'd gotten halfway around. "Do you miss him?" he asked, not looking at me.

I could not lie. "I miss him every day," I said, and he nodded again.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his teeth going immediately to the inside of his cheek, though his eyes were hard, as though he didn't care either way.

I still could not lie. "I missed you every day," I said, then rushed on as he turned fully to go, stopping him in his tracks. "I sometimes felt like I had imagined you. There was nothing of you left. And then..." I looked down, at my own body. "I found your baby," I said, liking the imagery that turn of phrase conjured, as though I had stumbled upon something that had been there, waiting for me. "And she made me feel alive."

Seth did not turn back around, but walked away, tossing, "He, Lydia, he," over his shoulder, and I smiled, thinking maybe another Seth Conlon in the world wouldn't be the worst thing.


	22. Chapter 20

WARNING: Re-familiarize yourself with the RATING before proceeding.

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By six-thirty, the time we had eaten supper the previous night, I had everything ready. Well, really, there wasn't much getting ready to be done. Seth had gotten a meal almost identical to the one we had shared after his mother's funeral, cold meats and breads, cheeses and some kind of pastry that smelled like heaven, and tasted (I was pregnant! Give me a break!) just as delicious. A few slices with a knife, some hopefully artful arranging, and dinner was served.

But Seth was not. I sat in the living room, watching the clock on the table as it moved slowly toward seven, then seven-fifteen. When it was two minutes away from seven-thirty, and my eyes had glazed over, leaving me in a kind of half-stupor, the door finally creaked open, and it took me a split second longer than it should have to rouse myself, blink, and look over.

"I'm really sorry," Seth said, striding through the door, kicking his shoes off and letting it slam behind him. "We had to get one of the horses checked out by the vet. She was colicky, and we had to get it taken care of."

I raised an eyebrow, unable to keep a small smile off my face. "I have no idea what that means, but is the horse okay?"

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, leaving only a sleeveless undershirt over his body, which was glistening dully with sweat. "Yeah, she's fine," he said, looking over at the table as I gazed at his skin, feeling a thump in my heart.

I stood, ready to sit down at the table, and starting to feel anxious again, here in this empty, small house, where unless we wanted to sit in painful silence, we would have to make conversation.

"I should clean up first," he said, and I merely nodded as he passed by me. As he went, I could smell the sweat on his skin. It was not unpleasant, but it was a scent that made you absolutely positive you were in the presence of a man, and I felt a distinct pull of desire in my pelvis that caught me off-guard.

I turned and followed in his path, peeking around the corner as he entered his room, peeling off his shirt. I caught one glimpse of that firm torso and golden skin before he disappeared behind the door, and felt the tendon in my neck twitch as a chill ran down my spine.

What was I _thinking_? We could barely carry on a conversation. We were either so awkward and stilted it would have been hilarious had it not been so uncomfortable, or we were giving each other hell.

How could I have grown so little as a person that the first thing I wanted to do with him was have sex with him? Okay, so maybe not the first. But still. It had been like a day, and I swear to God, my palms were starting to itch with wanting him.

I may not have been sure of our future as a couple, but I was at least sure that I wanted him in the biblical sense, the simplest, most animalistic form of the word.

But I couldn't do that, I reminded myself. I made a vow, then and there, that there would be no sex unless I was positive that being with him forever was what I truly wanted. I wasn't sure yet if I was ready to say that, to promise that to myself and to Seth.

He came back down the hall, pulling a clean gray undershirt on and tucking it into the waist of his black trousers, pushing the fabric down with one hand as he adjusted a sleeve with the other. He looked up and saw me just as he was buckling his belt, and stopped midstride. "What?" he asked, his voice soft, and it wasn't until then that I realized I was staring, my head tilted to the side, and I could feel, could quite literally _feel_, that my eyes had gone soft and liquid, my lips parted and slightly pursed.

I looked into his face and could not speak. I could only look at him, take in this beautiful man whose every movement caused me to go still, to watch. How could I be so stupid so as to be unsure of him, of us?

I _knew_ it was stupid. I knew it didn't make sense. But when I thought of forever with Seth, what I felt above any happiness or contentment was guilt. Guilt because of what it would have cost, guilt over Ben, and how much I had loved him, how much I was sure I still loved him. A sane person would have told me that guilt was misplaced, that no matter what had happened, Ben's death had been a terrible, unimaginable accident, and nothing I had done. I knew that, in my head, but my heart still screamed, "_It's all your fault_!" and I could not seem to shake that.

It had taken death to make me see how much I loved Ben. I did not want to need to have something like that happen with Seth for me to see if I loved him enough, but I needed something, needed to be sure. I was not willing to make a mistake, not with this.

"I'll be right back," I said, just needing to get away for moment, needing a few minutes where his face, his body, his very presence, were not making my head spin, and went into my room, stripping off my dress and undergarments, suddenly unable to breathe in my clothing. I allowed myself one naked stretch before pulling on clothes I had nicked from Seth's room: the clothes he had worn all the time the summer of the strike, those brown trousers, white undershirt, and the cream and tan checked button down. I left the undershirt, which fit to my thicker body, untucked, the over-shirt unbuttoned, and rolled the sleeves to my elbows before walking out. I needed to show him something, something he had as of yet been unable to see.

Seth was at the table, his back to me, when I approached. He must have sensed me behind him, and turned. He had reached over to pick a piece of food off the table, and he stopped mid-chew as he stared at me. "Why are you wearing that?" he asked around his mouthful, and chewed and swallowed quickly, his eyes taking in his clothes on my body.

"It's comfortable," I said, shrugging nonchalantly, and looked down. "I also wanted you to see something," I added, and straightened, arching my back slightly so that the small bump in my abdomen could be seen quite obviously. I placed just my fingertips on the bump, and his eyes zeroed in on it, seeing it clearly for the first time.

"Holy shit," he breathed, stepping forward. He touched his fingers to my stomach, then, before I could react or stop him, pulled up my shirt, exposing my skin to his view. He stared down at my stomach, then sank into the chair behind him, his eyes still on that small bump, his fingertips resting on my skin, cooler than my warm body. I could feel each individual pad pressing into my skin, imagined I could feel his very fingerprints imprinting on my skin.

I didn't look at my own body. I had seen it. I was only concerned with watching him, watching how his entire face cleared as he looked at the evidence of us, of what we had been. I had never seen his features held so loosely, had never seen him, even in sleep, really relax. It was as though he had been opened up by the sight of this small bump in my skin, and in his face I could see wonder, disbelief, and awe.

It's heady to know that your body has inspired that in a man, even if it's not technically something you controlled, even if what he is marveling at is merely a temporary extension of your body.

He pulled my shirt down, his thumb trailing down my skin, and looked up at me. "I can't believe we did that," he said, and shook his head, a grin starting on one side of his mouth.

"We didn't mean to," I said, smirking, and crossed my arms.

He returned my smirk with a much better one of his own, his eyes growing hot and teasing. "Well, we didn't mean to make a baby, but we sure as hell meant to do _some_thing."

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, but could not suppress a smile as I took the chair next to him, and he slid a plate to me. We didn't speak while we ate, and yes, I did feel more than just a bit out of my depth. I was acutely aware of the food in my mouth, felt as though I had never before noticed quite how hard the crust of bread felt on the roof of my mouth.

When we had finished with the pastry and I was surreptitiously licking at my fingers, my body yearning for sugar, he finally spoke up, looking over at me. "Why does that always happen? We go along fine and then it's like we run out of things to say."

I looked sideways at him, the tip of my index finger still in my mouth, and before I could speak, his eyes slid to the digit between my teeth, wrapped in my lips, and I saw his mouth tighten as his eyes got easily a shade darker and he drew in a fast, low breath.

I took the finger out of my mouth and wiped it on a napkin, feeling at once embarrassed and pleased. I looked down at the table, pressing my finger into crumbs and depositing them on my empty plate as I spoke. "I don't know that we run out of things to say. It's more like we don't know if we should talk about all the things we need to, so we don't."

"So you think we need to, then?" He said, and I shrugged a shoulder. "So? What do you have to say?" he asked, and turned sideways in his chair, hooking an arm over its back. I looked over at him, taking in the way his ribcage extended, how I could see his muscle through his shirt. I swear to God, my goddamned nipples stiffened. I mean, _really_? Come on, body.

"I wanna have sex with you," I blurted, and felt my eyes widen in self-induced shock as soon as those thoughtless words left my mouth. I could quite literally not believe I had said that out loud, and flicked my gaze around the room as though someone else could have said them, my face, I'm sure, comical, my eyes and mouth both wide Os of panic.

Seth leaned forward slightly, his eyebrows shooting up so fast I'm surprised they didn't fly off his face and go spinning to the ceiling. "You _what_?" He asked, his voice a touch higher than was normal.

"I..." I covered my face with my hands, sliding down in my chair as though I were planning to hide under the table, which really actually sounded like a nice option. "I didn't mean to say that," I said, my voice muffled.

"Well, you did," he said flatly. "You can't take it back now."

I shook my head behind my hands, feeling a flush creep from my chest to my neck, feeling absolutely mortified. "Oh, Jesus-fuck," I moaned, and he pulled my hands away from my face.

"Tell me again what you want to do?" he said, his brows pulling together, his voice going up at the end.

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. "I am _not _having sex with you," I said firmly, and he let go of my hand.

"I never said you had to," he answered, and I opened my eyes to see him get up and start clearing the plates away, his movements jerky, his jaw set.

It crossed my mind that at one time, he _had_ sort of said that I had to, but that seemed heartless, so I, for once, kept my mouth shut.

I watched him clean off the plates and place them in the sink. He braced himself on the counter, and I flashed back to when I had walked into my own kitchen to see another man doing the same thing. "Why the hell did you have to say that, Lydia?" he asked, shaking his bowed head.

"I didn't mean to," I protested, getting up to lean on the counter a bit away from him.

He looked up, his expression wry and a bit sarcastic. "So, what, you don't want to?" His mouth quirked with a challenge, a taunt, and I folded my arms, feeling myself prickle.

"Oh, stop. You know that's not..." I stopped, faltering. How did you tell someone that of course you wanted them, but couldn't just take them, because last time, sex with them had led to everyone getting hurt, some far, far worse than others? "I can't...we can't..." I sighed and ran a hand through my loose hair. "I won't do that to you."

"Do what?" he asked, his voice soft but a bit hard, and he pivoted to lean back against the counter, folding his arms across his ribs, and I couldn't not notice the muscles in his arms.

"It's...it wouldn't be fair," I said finally. "It would be like promising that this will all work out, and I can't do that."

He stiffened and stood up. "You know what, Lydia?" he burst out, his voice like steel, "I'm fucking sick of this. I'm sick of you telling me you don't know if you wanna be with me. I'm sick of you acting like you don't know if you love me enough to be with me."

"I'm not _acting_ like anything, Seth!" I retorted, feeling my chest go tight.

"Jesus Christ!" he half-shouted, his arms stiff as he threw up his hands. "I don't know what else to fucking do, Lydia, so I'm done trying to convince you that we're right together. You're gonna have to figure it out your goddamned self, if you can manage to see what's right the hell in front of you."

"What the _fuck_ does that mean?" I yelled back, feeling indignant.

"It means that even though you're one of the smartest people I know, you're being so fucking stupid I can barely stand you right now," He spat, and my entire body went rigid with hurt and anger.

"Fine, then, Seth, I'm stupid," I said, my voice like bullets, straightening and clutching at the edge of the counter. "I'm stupid, and you can go fuck yourself, 'cause I sure as shit won't," I hissed, full of fury, and turned to go, to slam out of the house, perhaps walk my anger off all the way back to Queens, but before I could turn fully, he seized hold of my forearm and wrenched me to him, and my hair whipped back as he yanked me into his chest, placed a hard, angry hand on my neck, and slammed his mouth down on mine.

A wave of rage and desire ripped through my body, and I clutched at his sides and bit down on his lip, hard. He inhaled sharply in pain and fisted his hand in my hair, twisting it roughly in his fingers and yanking so that my head snapped back, forcing my lips to press more firmly to his. I gasped, and he stooped slightly to hook his arm underneath me and lift me as he turned around.

He dropped me hard on the counter, and I felt my bones jar as my legs opened on their own to let him step in between them. Our mouths still joined, biting at each other, he put his hands on my hips, his thumbs in that tiny sensitive spot where my legs joined my pelvis, and pushed.

I felt a moan tear out of my mouth and pushed forward against his hands, both of my hands on his face, my fingers clenching at his neck.

I drew back, breathless, to see an almost feral look on his face, which only made him look more dangerously beautiful—dark, almost sinister—and yanked his shirt out of his trousers, pulling it up and over his head. Once his skin was exposed, I ran my fingers up his rib cage, scraping hard at the skin.

He looked into my eyes, and, with a glint in his eye and an almost evil smirk on his face, he ripped my shirts off in two moves, and when we were both topless, I took hold of him, hooking my hands under his arms, at his ribs, forcing him to move back to me, where he pressed his mouth to mine again, searching, seeking, desperate.

The counter was the perfect height, placing all the necessary parts at the exact perfect angle, and I fumbled with his belt and trousers, freeing him and letting them fall to the floor. He was hard, ready, and I took him in my hand. A low, guttural groan rumbled through Seth's throat, into my mouth, and as his hands went to my own trousers, I pressed my hands into the counter, lifting myself just enough for him to slide the rest of my clothes off.

We did not hesitate. As soon as I was safely steady on the counter, he moved forward, and I placed my hands at the soft skin at the very, very, bottom of his back and opened my legs, angling my body to let him slide inside me.

One hand at his lower back, the other bracing myself on his neck, we moved together, and he clamped his hands down on my hips. We did not kiss, but pressed our foreheads together. I could feel the sweat on his brow, feel his breath, sweet from dessert, coming in hot, panting gasps, and could hear my own breath ripping roughly up and down my throat.

As we finished, I gritted my teeth and stiffened, pulling him as close, as far inward, as I could manage, my fingernails scraping violently at his back, and he pressed his mouth to mine, taking my bottom lip between his teeth and biting down. It hurt, but it only seemed to heighten what I was feeling, and I did not try to pull away.

When it was over, he stepped back and out, and I slid off the counter, my entire body feeling like some sort of gel.

Seth didn't look at me as he pulled his trousers back up, pulled his undershirt over his head. I did likewise, holding my over-shirt in my hand, and watched him as he moved to the door and slid his feet into his shoes.

"Where are you going?" I managed, my voice raspy.

"I don't know," he said, and his voice sounded far away. "I have to get outta here," he said, and looked at me one last time, his eyes full of longing and anger, before walking out the door and into the night.

By rote, pure muscle memory, I cleaned the kitchen before drawing a bath and sinking into the water, feeling all the scraped skin on my body sting. I looked up at the beamed ceiling for a few minutes before taking in a deep breath and submerging my head in the water, eyes closed. Under here, in the dark, in the silence, I could hear my heart in my own ears, feel the beat all over my body, pulsing in my hands.

I held my breath as long as I could before coming back up with a great inhale, sucking in air and wiping the water from my eyes.

I laid there, staring, my thoughts whirling through what had just happened, and everything that had come before. I must have thought back at least four years, gone over my every memory with Seth, and by the time I ended my remembrances, and my mind had caught up to the present, the water was stone cold, so I washed, exited, pulled on a robe, and sat on the couch, looking around. It was ten forty-eight, and it didn't look as though Seth was planning to return. Suddenly, I was overcome with a tiredness that seemed to leach into my very bones. I felt my body start to hum in the way it does when you finally get to lie down at the end of an exhausting day, and I couldn't seem to get off the couch.

I woke the next morning to a weak, still pink sunlight, with a pillow under my head, a blanket over my body, and an empty house around me.

.

AN: You know you've been waiting this ENTIRE sequel for some angry hate sex. :D :D I know I have.


	23. Chapter 21

I sat up and looked around, taking in the pillow and blanket, wishing that Seth would have woken me, wondering if he simply threw the items under and over me or if he had sat next to me, perhaps touched my face as I slept.

I shook my head and stood to fix my face and hair, then pulled on a pastel purple dress with a drop waist and a lace top. I rolled the sleeves, even though that wasn't technically what you were supposed to do, but painstakingly buttoned the light lace collar up to my chin, going back into the bathroom to study the effect, turning this way and that. I did not yet need to let my clothes out, not with my corset and how small I was carrying, but I was sure that a trip back to the City for some new clothing would be in order soon, otherwise nothing I owned would fit.

I twisted up my hair and made my way out of the house and across the orchard without incident, and did not see Seth as I made my way to the main house.

I knocked at the door, and Nora came running up, but stopped short when she saw me, her face going pale. She didn't seem to have any intention of moving, so I pulled open the screen and walked in.

"Morning," I said, my voice coming out relatively pleasant, and she immediately looked confused, but did not respond, so I went on. "I wanna tell you I think what you did was unconscionable. It was a terrible thing to do." I paused, and Nora seemed to shrink away from me. I glanced around to make sure her mother wasn't nearby, and continued. "But I get why you did it."

She cleared her throat. "Y—you do?" she said, pursing her lips and smacking them nervously.

"Yes," I said, sighing. "I know you thought I was the bad guy in this situation, and maybe..." I shook my head. "Maybe I am. But I didn't mean to be."

She studied me for a moment. "You know, he used to write to someone else," she said, sounding both apologetic and triumphant. "Someone named Gleam."

Now it was my turn to stare. "Are you honestly telling me that you thought Seth and I _just met_? That what happened over Christmas was the entire story? It seriously never occurred to you to put two and two together and figure out that_ I_ am Gleam?"

Nora's mouth dropped, and I nearly smacked her for being so dense. "You are?" she breathed, and I rolled my eyes, putting my hands on my hips.

"Of course I am. You didn't see that because you didn't want to. You wanted me to be the villain, so you were completely blind to what was completely obvious."

She considered me, her face reddening in, I'm sure, a combination of shame and anger, and when she opened her mouth, I suddenly realized I didn't want to hear it.

"You know what? I'm done. This is done. I'm not gonna try and convince you that I'm not a terrible person. I'll be here for a while, and hopefully, we can get to know each other. I really just want to forget about all this."

Nora straightened and ran a hand over her hair. "You really want to do that?" she asked, her face still red, and I nodded. "I guess we can do that, then." She paused and looked me over, her face taking on a slight scowl. "I still don't like you, though," she added, sneering a bit.

I laughed. "Well, I don't like you much, either," I replied, and stepped closer to her. "But I have enough going on right now without worrying about you, too. So can we just start over?"

Her jaw worked for a moment, then she stuck out her hand, and I took it. As we shook, I said, "We have got to find you a boy, Nora, because if you try to sabotage me again, I _will_ beat the tar out of you."

Her shocked face made me laugh as I walked away from her and into the kitchen, where her mother jumped away from the door as though scalded, and looked caught out as I walked by her. "Seems young Nora learned to eavesdrop from her dear mother," I said good-naturedly, smiling a little crookedly, and Cathy's face relaxed. She flicked her towel at me and tsked at me, rolling her eyes.

"It's good you talked to her, Lydia," she said, sitting at the table and motioning to the fresh, aromatic coffee on the stove, which I immediately made myself a large mug of. "I hope you don't mind that I told her a bit of your story last night. I think she feels really terrible about what she did."

I sat, and nodded, sipping my coffee. "I think she does, too. I also think she'll keep acting like she hates me for a while, because she's seventeen. There's no way she can just admit she was wrong and turn it around."

Cathy laughed in surprise. "My, you do know quite a bit about the teenaged girl."

"I _was_ one not too long ago, and I'm responsible for them now," I said, smiling. "I know how they operate."

We sat in comfortable, companionable silence for a few minutes, drinking coffee, before Cathy asked what I knew she had been fairly bursting to know. "So how have things been the last couple nights?" she asked, and I felt my face go hot.

"_That_ good, hmm?" she said, her eyes twinkling, and a bittersweet laugh left my mouth.

"Well, that, yes, but...I think he's starting to hate me," I said sadly, looking down at my empty cup.

"Why on earth would you think that?" Cathy asked, sounding extremely doubtful, which made me feel a tad better.

"Because..." I shrugged, looking down at my cup, "because I'm being impossible, and a coward, and stupid, and my heart is all messed up over everything that's happened." I looked up and took a deep breath. "I know he's right for me; I know he loves me. I know we could be happy. But..." I closed my eyes and put my face in my hands for a moment. "But it's like, even though my head knows that, and a part of my heart does, too, there's this other part of me that is just _screaming _that it's not right, and I can't ignore it."

"Why ever would you feel that way?"

"Because I feel guilty. I feel like I killed Ben, and being with Seth after everything will be saying that I didn't love him, that he didn't matter."

"Ben is the other man, yes?" Cathy asked softly, gently. "The one who passed?"

"Yes," I affirmed, feeling that familiar ache start in my chest. "I can't even say his name without feeling like I'm gonna fall apart," I said, my voice wavering. "If I still feel this way for him, how can I be with Seth? How can I do that to him? How can I do that to _Ben_?"

"Oh, Lydia," Cathy said, reaching across the table to lay her hand over mine. "One day, you'll realize that loving another man doesn't mean you didn't love your Ben."

"Loving them both is what got him killed," I said flatly, and Cathy's hand pressed hard on mine.

"What?"

I looked up, feeling a great swell of shame. "I loved them both, and...They fought over me. They were _best friends_, and I let them do that. And then...then I slept with Seth, and Ben found out." I shook my head, my eyes filling, and I had to look down at my lap. "The next day, there was an accident at the steel mill where he worked, and he was...I don't know. I'll never know, I guess, if it happened because he was too distracted over me, but that's what I fear." I looked up at Cathy, my eyes imploring, begging her to understand how I felt, begging _some_one to get it. "Don't you see? He's dead because of me. And when he died, it hit me how much I loved him. So, what? It's my fault he's dead, and what? I just go and be with the man who...who..."

I trailed off, unable to explain any further, but Cathy didn't need me to. "You listen to me, young lady," she said, her voice hard and firm. "You did not kill that man. What happened to him was a terrible accident. You did not do this, and admitting your feelings for Seth has nothing whatsoever to do with how you felt about Ben."

"Yes it does!" I protested, and Cathy squeezed my hand, pressing my fingers together.

"No, Lydia, it does not. Stopping living doesn't tell the world you loved him. Being alone and unhappy would not make him feel gratified, not if he really loved you. Did this Ben really love you?" she asked, and I let out a tiny sob.

"Yes," I managed, and she nodded briskly.

"Well, then," she said, "If he really loved you, he would want you to be happy. No one who loves you would want to you to die with them."

I looked up. Isn't that what Seth had said in one of his letters? That Ben had died, and had taken me with him?

He was right.

"So what do I do, then?" I asked Cathy. "Do I tell Seth I'll be with him, tell him I'll marry him, and then just wait for all this guilt to pass? If I do that, I'll never be able to be truly happy with him."

"No, you're right. What you need to do, Lydia, is talk to Seth. You need to tell him how you really feel. Maybe he feels the same guilt you do, and maybe you can help one another. You won't know if you don't try."

And so that night, I planned to try, but Seth never came home, and finally, at eight o'clock, I made my way to the barn, where I heard music and laughter. I peeked around the doorframe and saw him, surrounded by the men, leaning back on a bale of hay. He did not look happy, and was strumming aimlessly at his guitar, not saying anything.

I watched him for a few minutes, fighting my body's urge to go to him, to take his hand and lead him home, then left.

I did not see him for over a week—eleven days, to be exact. I tried, each night, to stay awake until he came in, but I was spending my days with Cathy and Nora (who was, very slowly, beginning to smile when I talked to her) in the house, and Cathy kept me so busy cleaning, cooking, and sewing (also known as "draw blood with needles and get the fabric taken the hell away from you") that by the time I got back to Seth's house, I was too tired to make it too long.

Pregnancy was not helping, either. I could be fine all day, but by the time I got back to the house, it was as though my body just turned off, could no longer function, and more than once I fell asleep at the kitchen table and awoke in my bed, laid there by a man I never saw.

He did not go to his own home for dinner, nor did he go to the main house. It seemed that every time I went looking for him, he had just left. I had the distinct feeling that every man on the land had been instructed to give him a heads-up when they saw me coming, in order to let him make a getaway, and it stung that these men, who had seemed to be on my side, had turned so quickly, though I was not surprised—they were, after all, his men, his friends, and their loyalty was something I understood even if I didn't enjoy the way it manifested itself. 

Tommy, whom I had envisioned becoming a friend, could barely look at me. I could tell he wanted to say something, but he seemed so torn on whether or not to I always just wound up walking away to make it easier on the poor man.

I debated marching into the barn at night and demanding that Seth come back with me, but I knew that the Spot Conlon that lay dormant in Seth would come out roaring if I undermined and embarrassed him in such a way in front of his men, so I didn't.

Finally, one night, completely fed up, instead of going to my own room or sitting on the couch reading through one of Seth's many books, I laid down in his bed to sleep. His bed smelled like him, the sheets still clean, but having been on the bed for enough days to have absorbed the scent of his skin, and I pressed my face into the pillow, breathing him in, and felt an ache that was at once painful and wonderful.

I missed him. He was right there, never too far from me, but I may as well have been back in Queens for how easy it was for me to get to him. I understood now why he had left back then. Being in the same city, but avoiding one another, it would have been too much. It was too hard to know that someone is so close by, but so impossibly far away.

I couldn't make sense of myself. Here I was, pulling his pillow to my body and hugging it to me just as I had done with my own for so many years, feeling like having a major girl moment and just sobbing over missing him.

If I felt this way, how could I not be sure? I think, at the simplest level, I had stopped trusting my own judgment. I had not realized the extent of my feelings for Ben until then end, and what if now, I only felt this way about Seth because I thought I was supposed to? Because it would make sense; because we were having a baby?

I had made a terrible mistake with Ben, not owning and cherishing how much he meant to me before he died. I didn't want to make another one. I needed to be absolutely sure, and I didn't know if missing Seth and wanting him was enough.

How can you possibly ever know if you love someone enough to hold onto them forever? It's a sad truth of humanity that we can never really understand how much someone matters to us until we lose them, irrevocably and irreversibly.

I fell asleep cocooned in his bed, and somehow, whether through sheer force of will, or just chance, I woke when the front door clanged closed. All the other nights, I hadn't heard a thing, had been too deeply asleep to even wake up when he'd carried me from the table to my room, but that night, I heard the door close, and woke.

I lay still and listened to him remove his shoes, appreciating, once again, that he always took them off before walking into the living room. I heard him cross the room and open my bedroom door, presumably checking for me when the kitchen and living room had been empty. I could only imagine the look on his face when he saw that I was not there. I heard quick footsteps, and the bathroom door opened and shut.

"Oh, God," I heard him murmur, and wondered what he was thinking. His bedroom door swung open quickly, and I could barely manage to keep my eyes closed, feigning sleep, when he caught sight of me and let out a small sigh that sounded suspiciously like relief.

He moved over to the bed, and I could feel his eyes on me, and I willed my face to remain relaxed so as not to give anything away. He stood there for a moment, then moved away. I peeked one eye open to see him removing his clothes. In the half-light from the hall, I could see the dark outline of his naked body, and felt my heart jump into my throat. He opened a drawer and yanked on a pair of pajama bottoms. When he turned, I closed my eye and tried to breathe evenly.

I didn't know what he would do. Would he go sleep on the couch, sleep in my bed? Or would he—the mattress dipped, and I had my answer. He would get in, assuming I was asleep, that he could slip out before I woke, and I would be none the wiser.

I felt him lie down and slide into place, felt his eyes on my face as he laid his head on the pillow. I was unnaturally still, knew that if he had suspected a trap, he would be wary of my complete lack of movement, but he didn't seem to infer any deception, and I heard a rustle as he reached out a hand and laid it on my face, just to the side of my mouth.

He held it there for a moment, then pulled away, adjusting the covers and going still. Still pretending to sleep, I started to fidget, and as I did, I opened one eye just enough to see him, lying on his back, his arms behind his head, his naked chest exposed, head turned to watch me.

I made sleepy noises and managed to scoot over enough so that when I landed, on my side, facing him, my hand rested on his chest. I felt his heart beating under my hand, and, as always when I could feel the beating heart of another human being, thought of how intimate that was, being able to _feel_ the life of another person.

There was a small whoosh as he removed one hand from behind his head and put it down, over mine. His hand was warmer than mine, and bigger, and without my meaning to, mine clenched on his chest, squeezing him.

He went still, and I opened my eyes. He was staring at me, his face in shadow, and did not seem to be able to form words.

"Hi," I whispered, and his mouth opened slightly, but he didn't say anything. "Long time no see," I added, and he looked unspeakably sad when he answered.

"Why are you in here?"

I pressed my hand to his chest as leverage and pulled myself closer to him, pressing up to him. I was unable to get as close as I normally could, and felt the baby push against him as my stomach connected with his side.

He looked down, his eyes going wide. "Was that—" he said, and seemed to forget that I was even there as he sat up, pushing my shoulder back so that I was lying on my back, and looked at my stomach, still covered by my undershirt, the one I had gotten from Skittery for Christmas. He looked into my face for a moment, his expression asking permission, and I nodded. He lifted my shirt and took in our baby, who seemed to have finally decided to make its debut in the past couple days.

In the morning, May fifteenth, I would start day two of my twenty-second week. I had been seeing kicks on the outside for the past five or six days, and Cathy had been delighted. Even Nora had been unable to hide a smile when I had seized her hand to place it on my stomach.

Now it was Seth's turn, and he placed his hand on my stomach, feeling for something, anything. For a moment, nothing happened, and his face fell slightly. I moved his hand and felt around with my own, searching out a head or a butt (I could never tell which). Finding a hard, round spot, I pushed on it, and immediately, elsewhere on my stomach, a tiny foot kicked at the wall of its little home, and I grabbed Seth's hand, pressing it to the spot and pushing on the baby again.

This time, when the baby retaliated, Seth's hand was in place, and as he felt the tiny kick, his eyes went wide, and a slow grin crept across his face.

He held his hand there long after the baby had decided to ignore us both and go to sleep, and I watched him, watched how he rested his hand on my skin and let his gaze wander over the curve of my belly.

Finally, he pulled my shirt down and put one hand down on the bed at my outer side, supporting himself, his body over mine. I could feel his forearm pressing into my waist, feel the slight warmth of his skin.

"Why did you come in here?" he asked, and without thinking, I reached up and ran my hand down his arm, marveling at how satiny and smooth the skin there was, how my fingers rose and fell with his muscle. "Lydia," he said softly, and I looked into his face. "Why are you in here?" He did not look angry, or annoyed, and I detected sadness and hope in his tone.

"When you said you were done trying to convince me, I didn't know you meant you were gonna be avoiding me for eleven days," I said, and tried hard not to sound as aggravated as I felt.

To his credit, Seth looked abashed, and swung his head down briefly before lifting his chin. "I didn't know what to say to you. I thought if I saw you, I'd either make a fool of myself or start yelling at you again."

"Sex and yelling," I said, smiling a little nostalgically. "Isn't that what we used to do?"

He snorted softly, his mouth curling in a tiny smirk. It faded quickly, though, and he looked lost again. "I don't wanna do that anymore, Lydia. I don't want…I just…"

"Seth," I broke in gently. "Do you really think that the two of us will ever be able to coexist without yelling at each other at least on occasion?"

He pursed his lips, thinking this over. "I'm gonna guess not," he said finally, and I laughed.

"Seth, listen," I said, sighing, and sat up, sliding out from under him so that his arm was bridged over my thighs. "I…" I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts before I said something stupid. "I have a lot of things I need to explain to you. I haven't told you the whole truth about why I don't know if…Why we…"

"What's the truth, Lydia?" Seth interrupted, and I looked him over. In the half-light, his face was dark, his eyes seeming to glow in his face.

"The truth is that I feel guilty," I said, my voice small. "I feel like we…when we slept together, and he…and it's…" I was fumbling, unable to make myself say it out loud, but Seth didn't seem to need me to.

"It's our fault he's dead," he said softly, and I felt as though a bag of bricks had been swung into my sternum. In the next moment, though, I felt a lightness, as though a portion of my unbearable burden had been lifted off me to be shared by Seth.

I nodded, and Seth looked at me, his brow creased, as though he could not fathom what I was thinking. "And that makes you wanna stay away from me?" he asked, his voice getting edgy.

I ran my eyes over his lips. "I feel like it's wrong, somehow, for us to be together. I feel like…Ben's death, it's on us. And if we're together after all that, it means that neither one of us cared about him. I feel like if we're together it says he didn't mean anything."

Seth's lips parted, looking as though he was in complete disbelief, and I rushed on, wanting him to understand.

"I_ loved_ him, Seth," I said, and he flinched a little. "I know you don't wanna hear that, and I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I loved him, and I…I didn't know how much until it was too late. And now I feel like being with you says that I never loved him, that he didn't matter to me."

Seth was silent for so long, his eyes on the pillow next to me, his head turned slightly, that I thought he would never respond, would just get up and walk away, but finally, he spoke, still not looking to me. "I have a lot of guilt, too, Lydia," he said, his voice rough. "I'm not gonna tell you I don't, because I do, and so I get what you're saying. But…but mostly, Ben dying made me realize that I'll never be able to know when someone might be gone for good. My mother died, and I never got to…" he trailed off, and I laid my hand on his neck, my thumb on the side of his face, and he pressed into it, then cleared his throat, jerking his head a little, and I got the message and took my hand away. "Anyway, it was too late. And with Ben, we spent all this time fighting, and I guess I really thought that whoever won, we'd eventually maybe be able to still be friends. Or we'd…I don't know, we'd at least always have the option.

"But then he died, and there was…he's gone. That's it. There's nothing…yeah, we both…" he trailed off, and I knew he wouldn't repeat what had happened with Ben, would not say out loud what had been said, or done, but I knew, and so did he, that they had at least managed to tell each other, for the first and only time, that they loved each other. "But there's no chance to get back the friendship we had as kids," he continued, and finally looked at me. "I don't know if I'll make it through tomorrow. I don't know if _you_ will," he added, and I felt a little thrill of fear at the words—true words, to be sure, but ones that most people avoided thinking of. "And the last thing I want is for one of us to be dead, and the other standing there wishing we could have worked it out and been together." He stared me down for a moment. "Tell me, Lydia. If I died tomorrow, would you wish that we could have been together the last few months?"

I tried to imagine that, tried to honestly consider his question, but it was as though my mind, my imagination, were blocked. I literally could not force myself to imagine Seth dying or dead. A thud went through my chest and it was like my mind's eye completely shut off, like blowing out a candle.

And that was my entire problem, wasn't it? I could not mentally or emotionally handle imagining Seth dead, and so could not imagine how I would feel at losing him, could not gauge how much he really meant to me.

"I can't…I can't answer that," I said, "I can't even…I can't imagine you dead. I just can't."

"You're not trying," he said, his voice taking on the tiniest note of pleading.

"Yes I am," I said heatedly, feeling irritated. "I can't. I cannot imagine you dead," I said, and knew that I probably could, but that to try harder and succeed would only fill me with fear—and I knew that was his intent. To scare me into realizing he was right. But I couldn't force myself to do it, couldn't put that image in my head.

"Well, I can imagine you dead," he said, and I reared back a little at how vaguely threatening that sentence sounded, though I knew he didn't mean it in that way. "And it makes me wanna just…just…" he shook his head and pressed his free hand to his face, massaging his temples. "I just wanna be with you before it's too fucking late again. I'm so fucking tired of being too goddamned late every fucking time."

"Every time you get emotional, you swear more," I said, and he gave me an "are you kidding me right now?" look. "I'm sorry, but it's true. Every time you get emotional about something, it's like you feel like you have to swear more in order to not sound weak."

"Well, what the fuck ever," he said dismissively, and I almost laughed out loud. "That's not really the point of this conversation, Lydia."

I sobered immediately and took his face in my hands, pulling him to sit upright. "I don't wanna fight with you anymore, either," I said, my voice firm and strong. "I don't feel like I can tell you, 'Yes, I'll marry you,' or, 'Yes, I'll be with you forever,' right now. But I also don't wanna say, 'I won't touch you, or kiss you, until I'm sure of what I want.' I just…" I sighed heavily and pulled my hands away from his face, my fingertips trailing off, his stubble clutching at the ridges of my fingers. "I just wanna act on whatever I feel. I wanna be able to kiss you if I want to. I wanna be able to ignore you if I feel like it. I don't wanna make you promises right now. I need to figure out how I feel, but I can't do that unless I can _act_ how I feel."

Seth took a few breaths, his mouth tight, his eyes going from side to side as he went over everything I had said. He made a few false starts before he finally figured out what to say. "So…you don't know if you wanna be with me. You don't want to have to commit to anything. But you wanna be able to…kiss me, and whatever else if you feel like it?"

"Yes?" I said, not knowing if I was going to like where he was going with this.

"You know, you sound like a guy," he said, and I cocked an eyebrow. "Actually, you sound like _me_, when I was seventeen."

My jaw dropped, and I swear, my heart fell over for a second. I mulled this over. It was kind of true, I realized, and I had to ask: "Do you think you know how I felt, now?"

He scoffed. "I think I knew how you felt back in December," he said, and I shook my head.

"I don't think you did," I said, "I feel like…I don't know, in December, it was because you had been gone for so long, because there was…there was Ben, too."

"So?"

"So, you know how it feels to know that you may not be the _only _person someone is in love with. At least you knew you were in the game. At least you knew you mattered. You don't know what it feels like to know that they just may not love you enough."

He looked like he'd been slapped. "Is that what you thought?" he asked, and I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling that old hurt creep up on me.

"Of course it is," I snapped. "I don't think that now, because you've…you've told me I was wrong, and I believe you. I know you were scared. But at the time?" I nodded, exhaling in a bitter sigh. "Yes, that's what I thought. I thought you just didn't love me enough to be with me. Actually, I thought you didn't love me at all."

"So what am _I _supposed to think?" he asked. "I mean, what the fuck is this? Revenge? Do you want me to feel like I don't mean anything to you? Do you want me to feel like shit? 'Cause if that's what you want, you're doing a great fucking job."

I pushed at his shoulders, not hard, but enough to startle him. "Stop it," I commanded. "Of course that's not what I want you to think. I don't want to make you feel like shit, and you know it. But I…oh, Jesus, Seth, I don't know what to do! I _wish_ I could just let this go, and be with you. Don't you _know _that? But I can't get past what happened to Ben. I can't let him go, and until I can, I can't make a commitment to you.

"I can't...I can't figure out how I feel about you. I can't figure out if how I feel about you will ever be worth what we did, what we caused.

"If you can't be patient, then that's your right. I'll go, and we can just…be our baby's parents. We don't have to be together to parent as a team."

His eyes blazed, and he grabbed the wrist of the arm I was leaning on, almost causing me to topple over, but he pulled me forward and wrapped his other arm around my back, pressing me and our baby to him. "You're not going anywhere with that baby, Lydia," he said, his voice low, and I felt at once indignant at his order and proud at his sense of ownership of his child.

I was pressed to him, my stomach in his lap, my chest in his stomach, and he cradled me. It was a bit awkward, looking up at him, but as I did, his face softened. "Do what you have to do, Lydia. Treat me however you need to. But you have to stay. One way or another, we have to figure this out."

"So you'll give me my time?" I asked, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as though he knew he was going to regret this.

"You waited three years for me to come back, and you haven't abandoned ship yet," he answered. "I guess I owe you some time."

.

AN: I'm about to kill her. She's frustrating me to the _nt_h degree right now. I feel your pain, readers. Trust me on that. Effing Christ. I'm with Seth. Anyway, this is so fast because I had this written and was going to make the previous chapter and this one one chapter, but whoooa, it was long, so I split them.

Oh, I would just like to let everyone know: It does not go along with this story in the slightest, however...if you're missing Ben, I actually have a Spot/Bourbon SLASH one-shot...HOT MEN! It's pretty tame, however, it's still...-sigh- "Right Hand." Get it, girls.

Also. I have a bone to pick with the 40 or so people who have this on their alerts and don't REVIEW! You know what it is, it's mean! It's cruel not to review, so do it, or I will go on strike! Okay, so not strike. But...you wanna know what? **Just review, dammit.**


	24. Chapter 22

I had fallen asleep with Seth curled around me, his hand on my stomach, cradling our baby, and had woken to an empty bed and a rainy morning.

I made my way to the house, running through the orchard, my dress starting to stick to me, and I thanked myself for not being stupid enough to put on something that would be see through when wet. My clothes were holding up nicely in the rain, and I could not yet see my skin through the fabric, so that was something. It was the first time I had worn the clothing Cathy had made me, an absolutely adorable sleeveless navy dress. The neckline was just under my collarbone, and fit to my bust, a tan strip of braided fabric underneath, just above the bump, while the skirt, in the same soft, flowing fabric, would allow me to expand in the summer heat in relative comfort. I had been wary of not having any sleeves, but Cathy had assured me I would not want them as the weather moved into July and August, but had nevertheless given me a tiny tan jacket with elbow-length sleeves to put over it in mixed company.

I ran toward the house, my shoes sliding a little, and as it crossed my mind that I should really stop running, "Stop running, dammit!" rang out, and I slid to a halt in the mud, looking over to see Seth standing about ten feet away, his body rigid. "Don't do that anymore," he said tensely. "You're gonna give me a heart attack."

"Sorry," I said, trying not to laugh, and he looked me over.

"Is that new?" he asked, gesturing to my dress, and I nodded as rain splattered my face.

"Cathy made it. The last week or so nothing has been fitting, and I've been wearing nothing but your clothes," I said, blushing, and he nodded.

"I know," he said, smiling a little.

"How could you possibly know that?" I asked, for I had still been wearing my loose nightgown or my own pajama bottoms and shirt to sleep in.

"You think you can walk around here and not have every man notice you?" he asked, rolling his eyes, but a soft smile lit his face. "For a week I've been hearing, 'She's wearing that red shirt of yours,' or 'Miss Lydia's in your brown undershirt again,' and 'she's got on your black pants today.'" He paused, tossing his head to flick the rain out of his eyes. "They did what I asked when I told 'em I didn't wanna see you, but they had to talk about you constantly. Somehow I think they thought I was being an idiot."

"Somehow I think they consider us both idiots," I said, and he didn't say anything, just gave me a level look, nodded once, and turned away, flashing a wave in my direction.

I was soaked through by the time I got to the house, and wound up wearing one of Cathy's robes while my dress, jacket, and undergarments dried by the fire.

I looked like quite the beauty, with my robe, apron, and twenty-two week belly. Ridiculously fashionable, I'm sure, cutting carrots with damp hair and slightly smudged makeup.

Oh, and barefoot. Let's not forget the crowning glory of the old adage: Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.

The day went by smoothly, and the rain continued to fall, sliding down the windows in a dizzying way that would distract me from whatever I was doing so that I could watch the way the drops converged, shaking a little, and trailed onto the sill as one.

The men usually ate their lunches on their own, not coming into the house, but dinner was always quite the affair. The men who lived in town with their families usually headed on home as the workday ended, but the men who lived on the farm were always welcome to dine at the main house. There was a large building on the outskirts of the property that reminded me, quite unnervingly, of the lodging house of Brooklyn, and I can only imagine how Seth had felt when he had lived there, in the time before he had become foreman and been awarded his own small home. The setup was much the same—large living room, functional kitchen, and upstairs, a large bunkroom and washroom for the men to share.

What reminded me, however, of Brooklyn, was more a feeling than anything I could necessarily pinpoint. I could tell why Seth had risen to the top of these men—the very air around them was very reminiscent of Brooklyn, and since only the youngest men tended to live in the "barracks," as it had been dubbed, it had a very loud, rambunctious feel to it.

For the first time, Seth and I were both present at dinner, and I did not miss the way Cathy's cheeks dimpled as she motioned for us to sit next to one another, which we did, avoiding each other's eye. Nora sat down, smirking in a way that reminded me, swiftly and with a pang of longing, of the smirk Sprint had worn when she had forced Seth, Ben, and myself to sit in a terrible clump at Christmas dinner.

As we doled out portions, everyone seemed to be talking at once. Tommy and Matthew, who seemed to have settled in quite nicely, and had been given what was apparently the required diminutive nickname of Mattie, were both in high form tonight. Tommy grinned at me more than once, and I was positive I'd not had that much direct eye contact from him since the first night I'd arrived.

I did not miss the way Nora's eye lingered on Mattie, nor how her cheeks flushed, just slightly, when he passed her a dish and their fingertips brushed.

Well, thank God. I've never been much for matchmaking, but I considered, quite seriously, giving Nora what tips I could, if only to get her mind off Seth. Her crush for him was still pretty strong, and we seemed to be existing halfway between friends and enemies at this point, and I didn't rightly know what to call our relationship.

As was usual, the men told stories about their days, stories I suspected were heavy with hyperbole, but were always, nonetheless, funny. Seth didn't join in, but laughed along with the men, and I looked to my right to watch him, watch how his eyes lit and his lips pulled back from his straight, white teeth when he laughed. I got rather distracted, watching him, watching how his grin faded slowly into a small smirk, how he always shook his head just slightly when he had finished laughing. His cheeks were especially flushed from the sun we'd had, and there were, I noticed for the first time, small, almost unnoticeable freckles on his cheekbones, which for some reason made my heart just about melt, they looked so adorable.

I was so preoccupied, in fact, that it wasn't until he started and turned to me that it hit me that the conversation had halted, and I looked at him in surprise before jolting and turning to the group, where everyone was staring at me, smiling indulgently, Cathy most of all. "I _said_," she apparently repeated, "That you should really go to the market day in town tomorrow. You haven't been yet, and it's always a lot of fun to go."

"Oh," I managed, feeling embarrassment creep into my diaphragm, making my cheeks grow hot. "I..." I glanced at Seth, who was watching me carefully.

"Seth can take you," Cathy said firmly, cutting her eyes to her husband, who merely shrugged nonchalantly.

"Well, I guess, if you..." I looked to Seth again, and he gave me a slow half-smile.

"I can definitely do that," he said.

That night, I was unsure of where I should sleep, and kind of wound up in my own bed by accident, as a result of pure indecision. I lay there, wondering if it would be okay for me to go into his room, wondering if he would take it upon himself to come into mine. I had just decided that, no, he wouldn't, as we had basically agreed to let me take the lead, when there was a soft knock on my door, and it swung open smoothly.

"Hey," I said, peering up at him, not sitting up. He looked unsure, unsteady, in only his bottoms, and I had to smile. "Are you coming in, then?" I asked, and his smile was so small I could have imagined it as he stepped into the room.

He slid into bed next to me, much closer here in my small bed than we had been in his larger, full-sized one. The nights still got cold out here, and I had been chilled, considering an extra blanket, but his large, warm body created enough heat for me to feel warmth flood my body.

I turned my back on him and pushed back, nudging him in the hip, and he turned on his side, curling himself around me, his arm tucked under mine, and I took his hand, holding his to my chest. "So this market," I said softly, "Do you really wanna go? Is it really fun?"

His arm tightened as he answered, and his fingers shifted slightly in mine. "You can get fabric and whatever else you need for Cathy to make you more clothes," he said, knowing in his voice, and I laughed softly.

"Sold," I said, and I felt his warm breath tickle the back of my neck as he exhaled in a laugh. He adjusted his body, pressing himself flush with my back, and I felt my world start to tilt a bit, wobble a little in the way it does when your body finally relaxes, when you're so sleepy you can't even manage to move anymore.

I didn't know a lot. In fact, most of the time I felt like I knew next to nothing. I did, however, know that whenever I slept next to Seth, I felt as though a war could wage around us, and I would still, cocooned in him, be safe.

I woke sometime during the night to find him still tightly pressed to me, and when I shifted, adjusting a little, and pushed back into him, a small, sleep-laden groan escaped from his mouth and he, in his sleep, pulled me back into him and ground against me. Pleasure shot up my spine, waking me fully. I went still, my eyes shooting open, and did it again, arching into his pelvis.

Same reaction, except this time, he panted a little, and, overcome completely, I sat up and twisted around, pushing him into his back. His eyes fluttered open as I yanked down his bottoms, and when I swung a leg over him, straddling him, his eyes shot open and he looked into my face. I wasn't sure, really, what I was doing, only that my half-sleeping brain didn't have enough power for extraneous thought, and the only thing I could seem to do was follow my animalistic impulses.

I hiked up my nightgown and, our skin touching, leaned down to kiss his neck. He groaned, and I felt him stiffen between my thighs. I grazed my teeth down the tendon at his neck, and he slid his hands up my nightgown to run stiff fingers down my back. I moved against him, and he gasped, ready now.

I shifted and took him in my hand, guiding him, and pressed down so that he was fully inside me. I sat up, unable to lean forward as much as I would have liked to, and he slid one hand up my nightgown to let his fingers trail at my breast, and I heard myself moan as I moved on top of him, his other hand pressing on me.

We moved slowly together, both of us foggy with sleep, our movements languid, lazy. After a few minutes, an intensity started to build in my body, and the time for lethargy had passed.

I moved faster, now, grinding him into me as hard as I could, and his hands, both of them, became more forceful, and I cried out. I reached down to scrape at his ribcage, and he sucked in a breath, letting it out in a moan that was so low, I felt it vibrate through my chest.

Moving fast, furious, we finished together, and I fell forward onto him, resting my forehead on his chest for a moment before sliding off him and laying on my side, my head on the side of his chest.

He was panting, and swallowed hard before turning his head to press a kiss in my hair. "What was that?" he asked, and I shrugged.

"I wanted you," I whispered, and he brought his other arm over to rub over my arm, our baby. And like that, his palm pressed to my stomach, we fell back asleep.

The next morning, I put on the same clothes I had worn the day before, not knowing what else I could really wear. This uterus of mine was really taking over and getting comfortable, and my clothes had officially stopped fitting. I couldn't even fathom putting my corset on. This baby had shifted my organs so much already, that shifting them further with a corset would surely kill me, or at least cut off my oxygen.

I slid my feet into the shoes that had arrived along with my now useless wardrobe, new ones that I was positive had been chosen by Lady and Angel. They were a silky taffeta flat, a gorgeous bronze, and were, surprisingly, so comfortable I had half a mind to wear them without stockings, though I managed to contain myself.

The ride to town with Seth was quiet and relaxed, as we both sipped coffee from a thermos he had brought and munched on buttered bread.

When we got to town, I smiled at the sight of the marketplace. This bi-weekly event in this tiny town looked like every day in the City, and the overall bustle and look of the place made me feel a tiny bit homesick. There were stalls of fruits, breads, vegetables, cheeses, jewelry, clothes, fabrics, shoes, and trinkets, and as Seth helped me down from the carriage and we walked toward the crowd, I couldn't decide where to start.

I'm a city girl, used to everything I could ever want or imagine being at my fingertips, and I had spent a couple weeks away from all that instant gratification. The New Yorker in me was itching to buy something, to haggle over a price, and I gravitated toward a booth stocked with gorgeous summer fabrics.

Seth took my elbow, stopping me in my tracks. "I have to pick up some oranges," he said. "We can't grow them, and Cathy's been wanting some for months now."

I nodded, and he leaned down to kiss my temple before sliding away. I hurried over to the booth and spent a simply marvelous twenty minutes having a spirited haggle with the man at the booth over some of the richest, brightest colors I'd ever seen. Honestly, I think we both had a rousing good time, and he certainly gave me a wink when I finally paid and left, my arms weighted down with so many delicious fabrics I honestly didn't know if Cathy would have time to make them all.

Maybe I really needed to get serious about learning to sew. Ugh. Great.

I set out in search of Seth, taking my time, sampling small bites of bread and cheese as I went, and finally found him...in a gaggle of young women.

Simpering young women, actually. Simpering, whore-ish young women.

I stopped and stared, taking it in. These women, they were all beautiful in a way that looked slightly larger than life, slighter caricatured—their makeup too bright, their clothes too tight, voices too loud. And they were all talking to—or rather, at—Seth, who didn't look too uncomfortable in their midst.

He was listening to one of the women, a small, plump thing with thick, dark hair, his face unreadable. He did not look annoyed, _or_ like he was enjoying himself, and so I wasn't quite sure whether to be furious or to go save him.

He happened to glance up, and when he saw me, his face kind of froze for a second before he walked away from the woman when she was in midsentence, which, when she turned her red-lipped, heavily-rouged face to mine, made me—and now, I'm not proud of this (or, well, _too_ proud)—smirk at her.

"Hey," he said, and tried to slide an arm around me, attempting to quickly lead me away, but I wasn't falling for that one. I stood my ground and stayed still, and sure enough, three of the women, the black-haired one and two blondes, strolled after him.

"Seth, come on," the black-haired one pouted. "Don't go yet. You haven't been to one of our events in ages." She turned her eyes to me, and they glittered. "Seth used to come see us all the time. You know, Tom's Saloon?"

My heart kind of thudded in my chest, and I knew, without being told in so many words, that all three of these women had slept with Seth. I wouldn't go so far as to called them prostitutes, though for all I know, they could very well have been, but I'd seen enough saloon girls in my time to know that a lot of them, while (mostly) beautiful and not altogether stupid, believe that sex is sex, and if the getting is good, you'd better get some.

I could understand that, really. Maybe in a different life, with slightly tweaked circumstances, I would even be one of these girls. But the fact remained that...

Oh, fuck it, they were stupid whores, end of story.

"Sorry, no, I don't know Tom's Saloon," I said, and raised an eyebrow at them all.

"Oh, we used to have such fun with Seth," the shorter of the blondes said, and the other two grinned cheekily, cutting their eyes at him.

"Are you his sister?" the other blonde asked, her eyes going to my stomach, and I felt my chest clench with irritation.

"No, she's not," Seth put in, and clutched at my elbow. "Lydia, come on," he said, and the black-haired woman's eyes danced as she looked from me to Seth, who seemed to realize he had made some mistake and sucked in his breath through his teeth.

"Oh, you're _Lydia_!" she exclaimed, and leaned forward and shook my hand, which I held out without really meaning to. "Seth told me a lot about you, what was it?" she pretended to think back. "A month or so ago?"

My insides started to literally shake, I was getting so furious with the whole lot of them, but I forced myself to smile as though I knew so much more about everything than she did. "Well, how nice for you," I said sweetly. "But I'm sorry to say he probably won't be coming to any of your little...what did you call them? 'Events,' anymore." I grinned widely at them all. "It was really nice to meet you all, but Seth and I should really be getting back home."

I turned on my heel and walked away, my neck and chest hot with humiliation, hating myself for stooping to their level, for letting them get to me, for letting the fact that Seth had not been celibate bother me. I mean, really? What had I thought? That he, Seth Conlon, hadn't had sex with anyone in the three years we'd been apart? Once upon a time, he'd had so many women he'd had to give them days of the week names.

But...a month ago? Really? When he was supposedly so in love with me I was all he could think about? He went and talked about me to some flabby witch-haired tramp?

I was absolutely and unbelievably infuriated, and I walked, my strides long and angry, back to the carriage, dumping my bags at my feet and sitting upright, my hands folded over my knees, looking straight ahead.

Seth had not hesitated, had followed close behind me, but took his time securing the crate of imported oranges to the back of the carriage before hauling himself up and in.

"Lydia," he said gently, and I shut my eyes, feeling a bout of yelling coming on, not from hi, but from me, _at _him.

"Just drive, Seth, before I tell you what I think of you in front of all these people."

When we got back to the farm, I stepped down from the carriage and walked immediately to Seth's home, not going with him when he dropped off the oranges, knowing our early return would spark questions from Cathy and Nora.

I had just dumped my fabrics into the chair in my bedroom when I heard the door creak open and slam shut, and, just as I turned, Seth burst into my room.

"Lydia, I'm sorry," he said, slightly out of breath, but I held up my hand.

"I don't wanna talk about you having sex with them when we were apart before. Does it make me jealous?" I paused, hating the feeling. "As much as I am loathe to admit it, yes, it does. But..." I waved my hand. "That's not really...It doesn't matter." I looked at him, at his tight face, his chest rising and falling as his breath slowly returned to normal. "You slept with that girl a month ago?" I said, and was horrified to hear the hurt, the whine, in my tone.

"Lydia, please," he said, and crossed the room, taking my elbows in his hands. I stared up at him, my face stony, figuring it was better to be angry than sad. "It was...I..." he sighed and looked up and away for a moment before fixing his eyes back on my face. "I thought you knew how to get in touch with me. I thought you knew where I was and just didn't give a shit. I was..."

"I swear to God, you tell me you slept with her because you were sad, I will wring your fucking neck," I retorted, and he squeezed my elbows harder.

"Jesus, Lydia, why the fuck else would I?" he asked.

"Because you're Spot Conlon, and that's what Spot Conlon does," I said, a completely fake, sarcastic smile on my face, and he dropped his hands and took a step back, his face hardening.

"I'm not Spot Conlon anymore, Lydia," he said, his voice low. "I'm not that guy, and you know it." He sighed again and ran his hands over his hair. "Before last month, I hadn't seen her in over a year, since I made foreman. But I..." he shook his head and cleared his throat. "I came back here, and everything was so...I was all...I was so messed up. There was Ben, and there was you, and then I kept...I kept just waiting for you to show up, or write, and you never did."

"So you just went and slept with her." My voice was flat, emotionless, low.

He threw up his hands. "Yes, Lydia," he said, getting agitated now. "I did. It was fucking stupid, and after, I fucking...I felt horrible. It was stupid, and I thought it would make me feel better, but it didn't."

I considered this, feeling my anger start to ebb in spite of myself. I folded my arms. "Why did she know my name? What did you say to her about me?" I narrowed my eyes, and was surprised to see a slightly flush darken his cheeks. "_What,_ Seth?"

He cleared his throat again, opened his mouth, faltered, rolled his eyes, and tried again. "I said your name, okay?"

My eyes bulged. "What—_during_?"

He closed his eyes, looking like he wanted to disappear, and without knowing I was going to, I started laughing, clapping a hand over my mouth. His eyes flew open, and he looked at me, naked confusion in his eyes.

"Oh, my god, that is so terrible!" I managed, my voice high-pitched and choked with laughter, and I sat down on the bed, helpless with the mental image of him saying my name while in bed with someone else. Oh, sweet success, to have infiltrated his mind so fully.

He sat down gingerly next to me, clearly not knowing what to do yet, and I finally stopped laughing and pivoted to face him, coughing a little to get myself under control. "Listen to me, because I'll only say this once. If you want to be with me, there is no sleeping with other women, do you hear me?"

He tilted his head, his face serious but his eyes looking pretty merry. "Same goes for you," he said, and I grinned.

"No other women? Wouldn't that be fun for you?"

He grinned slightly evilly and took my by the shoulders, toppling me backward. He caught himself with one had so as to not press on our baby, and lowered his face to kiss me, hard. I felt a zip of desire shoot up my body, south to north, and pressed his mouth more firmly to mine with one hand at his neck.

He pulled back and looked me over. "I don't wanna share you even with another woman," he said, his voice serious, and I reached up to run my fingers down his cheek.

"I suppose we'll have to make it work with just the two of us," I said softly, and he lowered his mouth back down.

.

AN: Oh, God, I know, I suck. I'm busy, I have a life, blah, blah, excuses. You know this. I'm sorry; please review! And welcome to all new readers! Also, to HogwartsNewsy, a very big congratulations...I have seen photographic evidence of the man she is dating, and yes, he looks just like Spot Conlon, or rather, Gabe Damon. Seriously. It's the mouth. KUDOS, dude.

Also, I joined the masses and got a Tumblr: witwisdomcaffeine(dot)tumblr(dot)com. Get it!


	25. Chapter 23

Several weeks seemed to slide by, and I really started to think maybe we were getting somewhere, that maybe we would really be able to make this work.

Then, when I hit twenty-five weeks, all the sudden I turned into the huge ball of hormones and emotion, the majority of which turned me into a raging bitch.

I felt fat, even though everyone, Seth most of all, told me that nothing on my body except my stomach had even changed. Whatever, they were placating me; I was a whale.

Second, it was as though everything and everyone bothered me. My bullshit tolerance, already low to begin with, had all but disappeared, which led me to yell at Nora one afternoon to "stop being such a baby and bring that boy some goddamn cookies or something," when she kept glancing out the window to try and catch a glimpse of Mattie.

That one turned out alright, actually. Her mother, who had fallen in love with Mattie herself, thought it was hilarious, and Nora, instead of being angry, as I had worried as soon as the words had left my mouth, kind of grinned a little.

Cookies were made, and Mattie was presented with them. The next afternoon, I'd come around the corner of the house with some clean linens and caught them canoodling under a tree. Their sweet, budding relationship was about the only thing that could warm the cold cockles of my evil heart at the moment, really.

Everything else made me homicidal. Cathy took it all in stride, god bless her, and said that she had been the exact same way when she had been carrying Nora. "It's the main reason she's our only one, really. I don't think that Bobby would have survived another pregnancy. He would have either committed suicide, or I would have murdered him."

I was, clearly, not alone in being a terrible asshole while pregnant, but it surely felt as though I were alone in how irritated I was with just about everyone.

Annoyance crept up on me at the oddest times. A sauce would not thicken and I would have to move away to physically restrain myself from throwing the entire thing at the wall. Birds singing in the trees outside made me wish heartily for a shotgun.

And Seth. Oh, lord. He was so patient; he really deserved some sort of award for service to mankind. However, I found myself itching for a good fight, and he was being too goddamned understanding to give it to me. I just wanted to yell at someone and have them yell back, and no one was cooperating—everyone was far too accommodating to the poor pregnant woman.

Also, it was hot. Which is terrible in your best physical condition, and terrible times one thousand when you're sharing your body with another person. You know how you cuddle up to someone to warm up, and how in the summer, you try not to get too close to anyone for fear you may both go up in flames? Try having someone else, albeit a small someone else, _inside your body_ in the summer. This baby was like a fucking furnace in my uterus.

Anyway.

One night, I was at home (how strange, how quickly I had come to think of Seth's home as my own, and not just a place I was visiting. That had to be indicative of something.) on the couch, trying to read, but couldn't seem to stop experiencing terrible hot flashes that made me want to just die. Or jump in a lake. Or jump in a lake to cool off before drowning myself.

Seth was sitting in the armchair, a newspaper in his hand, reading it with a look of consternation on his face, a look he always wore when reading about the state of things in the world. He had made some toast, and, not taking his eyes off the article he was reading, took a huge bite, chomping down it with a crunch that seemed to reverberate through the silent room.

"Are you serious?" I asked, and he looked up.

"What?" he said, looking lost.

"Are you going for some sort of record? Like, world's loudest chewer, or something? 'Cause I think you've got this one in the bag."

He didn't say anything, just stared at me for a moment, his mouth twitching as though he were tempted to laugh, or maybe let me have it. But he just looked back down, ignoring me, and I felt more annoyed with his lack of reaction than I had at the eardrum-shattering chewing.

"What in the _hell_ happened to you?" I asked, and he looked up again, his brow scrunching.

"What?" he asked again, his voice slightly tinged with irritation. Ah, this was better.

"Spot Conlon never would have let that comment go without at least some sort of response," I said, pulling my legs up to sit Indian style, and rested my hands on my stomach.

He rolled his eyes and licked the corner of his lip, which told me that he was indeed reaching the point of aggravation. "I thought you didn't like him?" he said, and I was completely distracted from my mission to get into a fight with him.

"…Did you really think I didn't like you?" I asked, feeling legitimately flummoxed.

He considered me for a moment, then tossed the paper to the floor and sat back in the chair, swinging one leg up to drape over the arm. He leaned an elbow on the opposite arm and folded his hands together.

I feel now would be an appropriate time to mention that he didn't have a shirt on. Just making sure that's clear.

He looked at me for a long while, not saying anything, just running his eyes over me in a way that made me feel at once uncomfortable and a bit hot and bothered. Finally, he looked away, shrugging a would-be nonchalant shoulder. "I guess I kinda think no one really liked me," he said finally, and I could hear, under his casual tone, a twinge of hurt in his voice that made me instantly feel terrible for provoking him. "I mean, everyone wanted to be around me so I could do something for them, or they were afraid of me." He cleared his throat and looked down, rubbing the side of his face on his shoulder in a gesture that was both awkward and adorable. "I think Ben was the only one who actually just..." he shrugged again. "He was my only real friend, I guess."

I took this in, this admission of self-doubt, of self-pity, and considered him for a long moment before sighing and putting my book aside. "Come here, stupid," I said, and he looked up from the arm of the chair, which he had been studying with much feigned interest, and stared at me for a moment before unfolding himself from the chair and crossing the room. He stood before me, not moving to sit, and I cleared my throat impatiently. "Sit," I commanded, and he rolled his eyes before sitting sideways next to me, angled toward me.

"What?" he said for the third time, his voice softer now. I leaned back into the cushions and took his hand, feeling the dry warmth there, the roughness against my palm, and I held his hand, cupping it for a moment before lacing my fingers through his.

"I was your friend," I said finally. "Maybe not at first, when—" I waved my free hand vaguely. "But I—" I stopped, remembering how I had fallen for him, hard, quickly, too quickly, how I had loved him, loved who he was and who he could be, how I wanted to talk to him, to tell him the things inside my head, inside my heart, though I had hidden the latter as best I could. "I was your friend, Seth," I repeated.

He stared at me, and I had to fight the urge to look away from those eyes, those damned eyes that saw goddamned everything, saw everyone, and as I watched, his jaw tightened, and he shook his head a little, laughing a little bitterly. "And what the fuck are you now?" he asked, and I felt my heart thud in my chest.

He had been so understanding. So laid back. So giving, and accommodating, and now, this—this was—was this the moment of truth? The moment where he forced me to give him an answer?

It seemed utterly ridiculous that I did not have one. It_ was_ utterly ridiculous. But there we were: him waiting expectantly for an answer that I, in my idiotic, irrational mind, could not give.

I was silent. I was unforgivably, stupidly, silent, and he shook his head again. "That's what I fucking thought," he said, and got up, walked out, went into his bedroom and shut the door. He did not slam it, did not throw the door away from him to let it close with a cannon-like bang, like I probably would have done. He shut it carefully, with a tiny click that sounded sad in the sudden silence, and I closed my eyes, putting my hands over my face.

I could not think about this, could not deal with this, could not make this decision. It was impossible. Time had not made me feel further away from my love for Ben. It had not helped it to fade, had not made the pain soft at the edges. The edges—those goddamned edges—they were sharp, cutting, biting, and they stole my breath sometimes, and how, in the midst of all that, could I—No. No, no, no.

I went to bed. I did not, as I probably should have, go to Seth. I did not want to leave him all alone, but what the hell else could I do? Going to him, trying to comfort him, what would that do? It would only make it worse.

At least, that's what I told myself as we both slept alone.

Three days later, we had still not really spoken. Oh, it wasn't like the silent treatment, but gone was the easy chatter, the inquiries about each other's days, and I could tell, by Cathy's sidelong glances at the dinner table, that the change in our demeanors, our interactions, was not going unnoticed, and everyone else, too, seemed to be making an effort to draw us into a conversation where we would be forced to communicate, but Seth, better than almost anyone at the art of the sidestep, wasn't having it.

I was in the kitchen with Cathy, sampling, or, well, okay, totally stealing, some of the cookies she'd just baked, when Tommy came skidding into the kitchen, a wild-eyed look on his face.

I paused with a cookie halfway to my mouth and took him in for a moment, feeling my pulse quicken automatically, as though his obvious panic were catching.

"Who's hurt?" Cathy asked immediately, and I heard a thick tension in her voice. "I'm calling now," she said, and I marveled at this woman, who could read these men so well as to know, without being told a single word, that someone was hurt, that a doctor needed to be called, and I watched her hurry into the study before snapping my head back to Tommy.

"What happened?" I asked, and was surprised when he hesitated. "What, Tommy?" I said, and my heart kind of clanged a bit, and suddenly, without being told, I knew, too. "What—What happened to him, Tommy?" I asked finally, feeling my voice creak a little, and a hot shudder went down my spine at the absolute certainty that, yes, someone was hurt, and, yes, the someone was Seth.

"We—" Tommy was red-faced and a little out of breath. "We were changing a shoe on one of the horses," he said, his voice breathy as he pulled in air, "And, I don't know, the horse just spooked, and Seth was holding the hoof, and it—"

I was running before he could finish, pushing past him, past his protestations and his calls to, "Wait! Don't—", images taking form in my head, horrible, horrific images I was absolutely certain were true. A kick to the stomach, to the chest, and there, at the point of impact, would form a mottled, angry bruise, the outward sign of the blood bursting from the organs to stain the underside of the skin, and he would lie there, and I would lose him, lose him, oh, God, Jesus, and I was running, running, and sprinting across the yard and into the barn, and a knot of men were standing in front of someone—_Seth_—who was leaning against the wall, and fuck, _fuck,_ oh God, how could this have happened again?

My feet must have made noise. I didn't know, couldn't hear a thing over the rush of my blood and the hammer of my heart, but they must have, because the men turned, and a path opened up, and I was on my knees next to Seth, who was pale, sweaty, his face twisted in pain, and my hands went immediately to his shirt, and I ripped the buttons, and one ricocheted, hitting me in the lip, and I felt the sting, yes, but there was no time, no _time_, because I had to see, had to do something. I yanked his undershirt up, and I could hear someone, someone who sounded a lot like me, murmuring, over and over, "_Oh, God, God, God_."

Skin. Tan, hot skin, and my eyes were running over it, and I pulled his shirt up to reveal his chest, and my hands were fluttering on his skin, touching it, taking inventory, and there was…

Nothing.

Not a mark on him.

All the sudden, my hearing seemed to return, and I heard myself gasp, and the air rushed past my vocal chords so quickly, with such intensity, that it screeched dully in my throat as it went by, and in the next moment, it rushed back out, and my mouth somehow formed words, "Jesus _Christ_," and then I sat back on my knees, my hands fisted in his undershirt.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said, and tried to sit up, wincing, and fell back to the wall with a groan, his hands going down, down, and my eyes followed, and finally, I saw it—his knee, clearly swollen and resting at a slightly, subtly, strange angle.

"Dislocated," said a voice behind me, and I did not turn, could not summon the energy to turn, because it was his knee, just his knee, his fucking beautiful, wonderful _knee_, and thank whatever god or gods there were, because a knee, a knee would heal and oh, Jesus, I was suddenly, without warning, sobbing, and he seized me by the shoulders and pulled me to sit next to him, and my face was in his chest, his arms around me, as I cried, knowing how ridiculous I must look, knowing how spectacularly it must have appeared I was overreacting, but Seth, gorgeous, perfect, flawed, infuriating, exhilarating, whatever else he was, he did not need me to explain, and merely held onto me, whispering in my ear.

"It's okay, babe," he whispered. "It's okay, yeah? It's just—it's not—I'm _fine_," he murmured, and I nodded, feeling overwhelmed by the crippling, all-consuming terror that had swept over me, for I had been sure, positive, absolutely secure in the knowledge that he would die, that I would lose him, this man, in exactly the same way that I had lost Ben.

One thought, one coherent, real thought had taken shape as I had run to him, sure he would be taken away: _But I love him_.

AN: Ohai. ;)


End file.
